


Used/Useless

by sparrow30



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Denial, F/M, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Rape, Recovery, Survivor Guilt, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, setbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-06-29 00:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15718482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow30/pseuds/sparrow30
Summary: When Snape is exposed as a spy for the Order, Hermione finds herself caught in the crossfire of the Dark Lord's quest for vengeance.She returns home with his followers' actions seared into her skin and his promises tattooed on her soul, determined to keep her ordeal a secret from those she loves. They've been through enough already.She always knew she would have to sacrifice parts of herself before this war was out, but how much can she give up before there's nothing of her left?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Everyone, I'm back with something new! This is my first time writing for the HP fandom, so we'll see how it goes!
> 
> Before I start I really want to emphasize the tags on this fic. This is _significantly_ darker than what I usually write, and gets very graphic very quickly. I tagged Hurt/Comfort and I do intend to follow through on the comfort side of things, but I'm warning you now there's a lot of hurt before we get there, and it does not pull any punches. 
> 
> So, if you take a look at the tags and the archive warnings and think that this might not be your jam, I urge you to exercise your best judgement over whether this really is the story for you. I'm always open to constructive criticism - and if anybody feels like the tags are at all lacking please let me know - but if you feel the need to descend into the comments just to tell me how much you hate this...please don't. I'm already nervous enough about posting this as it is.
> 
> Okay, that's all I've got for now. Please let me know what you think!

Hermione yawns, one hand coming up to card absently through her curls as she blearily navigates the stairs down to the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place.

 

She had never been an early riser as a child, breakfast cartoons apparently just hadn’t held the same allure for her as they had other children her age. But rooming with four other girls during her time at Hogwarts had gradually beaten that character trait out of her - like hell was she going to be the last one in the bathroom after Lavender somehow managed to use up all of the magically heated water, _again_ \-  and now she can’t help but rise at the same time as the sun.

 

Not that many others in this house seem to share her sentiment, of course. Honestly, she still has no idea how Ron and Harry are able to sleep as long as they do.

 

She reaches the kitchen and fills the kettle with a flick of her wand and a mumbled _Aguamenti,_ moving to grab two mugs from the overhead cupboard as the water begins to heat.

 

She plops a teabag in each of the mugs; Darjeeling for her, English Breakfast for him, then grabs the sugar from the side and milk from the fridge as she waits for the kettle to boil.

 

As soon as the water starts to rumble she fills the two mugs to the brim. She only lets her darjeeling steep for a minute or so before delicately extracting the teabag, but she lets the English Breakfast stew for a full five minutes, squashing the teabag against the rim a couple of times for good measure. She then adds a liberal amount of milk, along with three spoons of sugar.

 

She still doesn’t think she’s quite gotten over her shock at finding out that the esteemed Professor Snape takes his tea like an East End builder.

 

She carries both mugs over to the table, placing the English Breakfast down the far end of the table before she takes her place at the other end, sipping her tea gingerly to check whether its cool enough to drink yet. It’s not, but she drinks it anyway.

 

Her book is still waiting for her from where she left it last night, and she flicks it open with a sigh. She always thought she’d be a researcher of some sort when she grew up, she just didn’t think it would be quite like this.

 

When she was a little girl, she wanted to go to Oxford, get her PhD in Maths (or Physics, or maybe even both) and then solve an unsolvable problem or three.

 

Then she got her letter from Hogwarts, and everything changed. The question became whether she would apprentice in Arithmancy, or whether she would follow in her Head of House’s footsteps into the fascinatingly complex world of Transfiguration. So many more options, so many more possibilities.

 

Then Harry staggered out of the Triwizard maze, clutching the limp body of Cedric Diggory to his chest, and everything changed again. And this time not for the better.

 

All of a sudden she wasn’t studying for the joy of learning, but because these were skills she desperately needed to survive in this terrifying new world. In this world she took her NEWTS  huddled in fear in the Great Hall, surrounded by Aurors on high alert because of a rumoured Death Eater attack. In this world she graduated from Hogwarts and promptly moved into Grimmauld Place along with Ron and Harry to assist with the war effort, pledging herself to the Order the day of her eighteenth birthday. In this world she spends her days poring over dusty tomes, searching for any scrap of information, even just a whisper, of how to put Voldemort back in the ground from whence he rose seven years prior.

 

She guesses an apprenticeship will have to wait until there isn’t a psychopath with plans of world domination threatening everything she holds dear.

 

She gets through about three pages of the densely worded volume before she hears soft footsteps outside the kitchen door. Surreptitiously checking her watch she grins - right on time as usual.

 

Professor Snape silently slips into the kitchen, not even acknowledging Hermione’s presence as he takes up his seat at the other end of the table. He picks up his waiting tea, blowing twice on the surface before taking a large sip, his quiet hum of appreciation the only thanks Hermione knows she’s going to get. There’s another beat of silence, and then he digs into his robes, extracting a tiny book that he wandlessly enlarges back to its regular, formidable size. He places the book down on the table in front of him, taking a moment to line the corners up with the edge of the table before smoothly sliding it across the smooth surface towards Hermione.

 

Hermione accepts the proffered book equally silently, smiling as she quickly scans the title - _“Poisons, Toxins and Venoms: What to Use and When” -_  before re-shrinking the book and pocketing it within her own robes.

 

They’ve never acknowledged this routine they’ve somehow fallen into; Snape procuring titles for her that would make the more upstanding witches and wizards of society faint, and her repaying his initiative with tea that has been brewed to within an inch of its life.

 

It had all started when her ex-professor moved into Grimmauld place a few months ago, explaining brusquely that the new ministry-appointed headmaster of Hogwarts had banned all staff from remaining at the school outside of term time. He’d been met with quiet hostility; Hermione knows Ron and Harry still doubt his true allegiance to the Order after everything he’s done in the name of being Dumbledore’s spy, but McGonagall had put her foot down, and as the new head of the Order that had pretty much been the end of the discussion.

 

For the first few weeks he had skulked around the house like he was still in the dungeons at Hogwarts, keeping out of everyone’s way as much as they kept out of his. The first time he’d come down to the kitchen at precisely seven in the morning to find Hermione already present he had promptly turned around and left the way he came. But it seemed that eventually the desire for morning caffeine outweighed his need for privacy, and once Hermione proved her ability to drink her tea without attempting to interact with him in any way, he started joining her daily.

 

The silent book exchange had been added about two weeks later, when Snape had taken a look at her current literature - yet another reread of _Moste Potente Potions_ \- rolled his eyes and arrived the next morning with three far more interesting (and far darker) reads. Hermione had devoured all three titles in a matter of hours, and had silently slid them all back across the table the very next day along with the sheet of notes she had made. Snape had sneered at her notes, pushing them back towards her without even reading them, but after that he started bringing down at least one new book every morning. Judging by their pristine quality, Hermione has a sneaking suspicion they might be from his personal collection, which surprises and delights her in equal measure.

 

“I recommend chapter fifteen on undetectable coagulants. It has a number of interesting insights.” Snapes smooth voice cuts through her reverie so unexpectedly that Hermione jumps, knocking her knee on the underside of the table. She swears, ignoring Snape’s raised eyebrow, before turning to look at her ex-professor in surprise.

 

This is new. They’ve never actually _talked_ before.

 

“I- I’ll bear that in mind, thank you,” she says stiltedly, completely thrown off guard. Snape waves his hand dismissively, his attention focussed on a spot just past Hermione’s shoulder.

 

A full minute of silence passes, where Hermione tries and fails to process this new development. She desperately wants to test whether Snape’s unexpected communicativeness might continue.

 

“I found chapter seven in the last book you gave me very informative,” she starts cautiously, “I never considered the preemptive use of competing antidotes before.”

 

Snape slowly directs his gaze towards her face, and Hermione finds herself holding her breath like she’s still that same excitable first year who was so desperate for her teacher’s praise all those years ago. His dark eyes bore into her, and she barely resists the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. She determinedly holds his gaze even as she waits for the dismissive comment, the verbal takedown that she knows is sure to follow.

 

“I have a number of additional reads on that particular theory.” Snape’s voice is perfectly even, not giving away an iota of how he’s feeling. “I shall bring them down tomorrow.”

 

“I would appreciate that,” Hermione replies, making sure her voice is equally devoid of inflection. She won’t reveal how excited she is at the idea of being treated like an intellectual peer by this man, she _won’t_.

 

Snape nods and returns to his tea, signalling the end of their unexpected conversation. Hermione exhales as quietly as she can and returns to her book, barely retraining the grin that spreads across her features.

 

* * *

 

“It’s an interesting theory, I will grant you that. But theory is all it shall ever remain.” Snape’s voice is dismissive even as his eyes glint with the fire of debate. “It is hard enough to poison a target once undetected. What makes you think you’d also be able to slip them the competing antidote without giving the game away?”

 

“That’s why you’d want to combine the poison and the antidote into a single suspension,” Hermione explains far more animatedly, hands gesticulating wildly as she argues her case.

 

It’s a few weeks after their first, tentative conversation, and to Hermione’s delight theoretical debate has somehow worked its way into their morning tea routine. The subject matter varies from day to day, but this particular topic is one they keep coming back to. Hermione is sure that competing antidotes is the key to them winning this war, if only she can work out the logistics of how.

 

Snape sighs heavily, like Hermione has said something particularly egregious. “Just when I start to think you might be marginally more capable than the vast majority of dunderheads I teach at Hogwarts. You know full well that combining potions in that manner will destabilise the properties of both solutions, rendering them both equally useless.”

 

“The thought _had_ crossed my mind, yes,” Hermione says with an eyeroll, ignoring her ex-professor’s growl in response. “That’s why you’d need to cast a variant of the stasis charm on the respective potions, to prevent them from combining.”

 

Snape opens his mouth, no doubt to continue objecting to her argument, before slowly closing it with an audible click. He taps a long forefinger against his lower lip, considering the proposal, and Hermione can’t help grinning. She’s got him now.

 

“Interesting,” Snape finally concedes, although the word sounds almost painful on his lips. “There have been promising developments into molecular level stasis charms, and it would have the added benefit of allowing for a time-delayed administration.”

 

Hermione’s grin grows even wider as Snape reaches the same conclusions she had come to during her research the night prior. “I started making some notes,” she says eagerly, digging out a folded sheaf of parchment from within her robes. “There are some preliminary tests we can run to confirm viability which should be relatively straightforward.”

 

Snape reaches across the table with his left hand to take the proffered papers, his dominant hand still cradling his half-drunk tea, but before he reaches them he hisses and sharply withdraws his hand.

 

“Sir?” Hermione asks worriedly as Snape cradles his arm to his chest with a grimace.

 

“I am being summoned,” Snape bites out, his voice laced with pain, and Hermione feels all the colour drain from her face. She watches, stunned, as Snape swiftly rises to his feet, his expression a hard mask as he makes for the door. “Tell Minerva I shall report back when I am able.”

 

“Of course,” Hermione practically whispers, feeling like her brain is wading through tar. Snape has almost reached the door by the time her faculties kick back into gear, and she abruptly stands up, almost knocking over her chair in her haste. “Sir...be careful, won’t you?”

 

Snape turns back towards her, an odd expression colouring his features. He opens his mouth as if to say something in response, then quickly snaps it shut again. He nods brusquely, before disappearing out the door without a word.

 

* * *

 

Snape doesn’t return that evening. Or the next. Or even the one after that. Hermione forcefully tells herself that she has no reason to doubt the man’s ability to keep himself safe, but by the end of the fourth day without word she can’t help but start to feel a tad anxious.

 

When she raises her concerns to McGonagall, the older witch purses her mouth in an expression that looks oddly like pity.

 

“I know you’re on edge after what happened to Albus. We all are,” she says with a gentle pat to Hermione’s shoulder. “War is hard, lass, and it won’t get any easier. But Severus can look out for himself, he always has done.”

 

Hermione frowns at what she considers a frankly blasé attitude towards Snape’s wellbeing, but McGonagall’s stoic expression has started to falter at the mention of Dumbledore. She nods and makes a hasty retreat before she had to deal with the fallout of inadvertently referencing that which shall not be referenced.

 

Harry and Ron are of no help either, alternating between making snide jokes about Snape flying back to his batcave to sleep, and more serious accusations of him returning to his true master. After her third failed attempt to get them to take her seriously Hermione snaps, storming out of the room and refusing to speak to either of them until they seek her out to apologise, both looking appropriately contrite.

 

“We’re sorry, ‘Mione, really we are,” Ron says with a small pout. “But why do you care so much? He’s still a git.”

 

“He’s an Order member, Ron.” Hermione argues, eyes glinting dangerously.  “One who might well be in danger.”

 

“Even if that’s the case,” Harry counters softly, “There’s nothing we can do without risking blowing his cover if it hasn’t already been blown. Give him a few more days, then we’ll talk to McGonagall.”

 

Hermione huffs, but is forced to reluctantly agree with her friend’s assessment. There’s no sense in throwing away all of Snape’s hard work ingratiating himself within Voldemort’s inner circle just because she has a bad feeling. The sensible thing to do is to wait. She can do that, surely. She’ll give it another twenty-four hours, then she’ll make the Order take action.

 

In the end, however, the decision is taken out of her hands.

 

Harry, Ron and a few other Order members had gone a pub just down the road about an hour ago, arguing that all work and no play makes for a tired and bitter resistance. For once Hermione actually agrees with the sentiment - she honestly can’t remember the last time she did something that was purely for fun - but she had still had two more chapters to get through when they were all ready to leave, so she had waved them on ahead and promised she would catch up with them soon.

 

By the time she finishes the final page her head is pounding like it’s been trampled on by an angry Hippogriff, and for a long moment she considers bailing on her friends and just heading straight to bed. But it’s been so long since they all hung out together, and really who knows when the next time will be, what with Voldemort’s followers getting more daring in their attacks. Hermione knows she’ll regret it tomorrow if she doesn’t at least make an appearance, so with a soft sigh and a hastily knocked back headache-soothing concoction, she grabs her travel robes and heads out into the night.

 

She’s barely gotten three steps from the door when something large and heavy comes down on the back of her head, and abruptly the whole world goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for such lovely positive feedback on the first chapter! I'm so glad you're all liking what I have so far. Also thank you to the wonderful Lilinas who has agreed to come on as my beta for the rest of this, you're amazing as always!
> 
> This chapter is where this story earns it's archive warnings I'm afraid (I did say it would get real dark real fast!)

She’s woken abruptly by a wave of ice cold water hitting her square in the face.

 

She splutters and gasps, her flails aborted by the thick rope binding her to the chair underneath her. 

 

“Told you we should have just used  _ Stupefy _ ,” an unfamiliar voice says. “ _ Rennervate _ is so much cleaner than this mess.”

 

“And I told  _ you _ that she would have seen a hex coming a mile off. Probably warded against it before she even left the house.”

 

Second voice is right, Hermione thinks to herself as she shakes her head roughly to try and clear the cobwebs that have formed between her ears. It’s practically second nature to surround herself in magical shields before she ventures outside nowadays. Why on earth hadn’t she thought to be wary of physical attacks?

 

_ You’ve been living in the magical world too long _ , she thinks angrily as she turns as much as her bonds allow, trying to scope out the room like Moody had taught them all. Muggle Hermione would never have allowed herself to be caught so unawares.

 

Thick stone walls, no windows and a single iron-barred door. The damp in the room suggests they’re underground which, combined with the three heavyset figures keeping her company, leaves scant opportunity for escape.

 

No matter, she’ll just need to be smarter, that’s all.

 

“Morning princess,” the first voice leers, and a robed, masked figure moves into her field of view. Hermione’s heart stutters as she recognises the Death Eater garb, faced with undeniable proof that she is indeed where she feared.

 

“What do you want with me?” she asks, stalling for time as her brain clicks and whirrs through a dozen different scenarios of why she might be here.

 

Her train of thought is brought to an abrupt halt as she’s roughly backhanded by her captor, her head snapping to the side hard enough to make her teeth rattle. “We asks the questions around here,” the Death Eater sneers. 

 

Hermione nods in compliance, taking a shuddering breath as she tries to get her thoughts back on track past the sudden ringing in her ears. The constant thud of fear in her chest is making it hard to concentrate in a way that’s terrifyingly unfamiliar. 

 

She always thought that Moody had been overly thorough in his simulations, now she realises he wasn’t thorough enough. She tries desperately to remember her training -  _ Find the weak spot in the room, keep it in view. Get to work on your restraints, in whatever way you can  _ \- but it’s so hard to concentrate when her captor’s face is inches away from her own, breathing his putrid breath all over her.

 

“Good girl,” the brute says with a sneer, and Hermione has to physically stop herself from recoiling. “Now, tell us everything you know about the Order’s plans.”

 

“What are you doing?” the second Death Eater interrupts angrily. “Our orders were to take her directly to  _ Him _ when she wakes.”

 

There’s something in the man’s tone other than anger, and when Hermione recognises it as fear her heart stutters in her chest, realising with a whimper who they’re talking about. This isn’t some low level Death Eater raid; Voldemort is somewhere in the building, and he knows that she is here. Her odds of survival have suddenly gone from decent to next-to-nothing, and that’s a terrifying thought to comprehend.

 

The first Death Eater stands up with a growl, rounding on his compatriot. “Idiot, think about how he’ll reward us if we can get something out of her now.”

 

“Or, he’ll kill you for disregarding his orders,” Hermione counters, forcing herself to meet his eyes determinedly -  _ look for friction between your captors, you might be able to exploit it. _

 

The next punch hits her hard in the stomach, and she doubles over as far as her restraints will allow her with a wheeze. Fuck, this hurts far more than any of her training duels ever did.

 

“Shut up!” Death Eater Two says, yanking her back upright by her hair, and Hermione realises with dismay that all she’s done is managed to align them both against her. “We can make this very, very uncomfortable for you.”

 

“Go to hell,” Hermione groans, steeling herself against the sharp pin-pricks emanating from her scalp. She’s a fully fledged member of the Order, a soldier in the ongoing war against these monsters. She refuses to break just because of a little pain. “You’re not going to get anything from me.”

 

“Oh good, I like it when they’re feisty,” Death Eater One says, sounding far too happy for Hermione’s liking. Another sharp blow to the ribs has her groaning and biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood, her breath coming in great heaving pants. “It makes it so much sweeter when they break,”

 

“Fifteen minutes,” Death Eater Two concedes, cracking his knuckles ominously. “Then we take her upstairs.

 

_ I was right, _ Hermione thinks deliriously to herself as a boot comes down hard on her knee.  _ I knew I was underground. _

 

She doesn’t know whether they intentionally exceed their self-imposed fifteen minute limit, or whether it simply feels longer under the constant stream of abuse. She refuses to respond to their questions, or listen to their taunts, instead coming up with plan after plan inside her head for how she might escape. She can cast a decent  _ Expelliarmus _ wandlessly, she just needs to get her hands loose enough to catch the result. Or maybe she can pretend to stumble over the threshold when they try to move her and catch them unawares. One versus three isn’t great odds, but she’s gone up against that many opponents in practice duels before - once - and if her other option is doing nothing then she’ll just have to risk it.

 

She gasps as she takes another harsh blow to her side, dark spots of pain exploding behind her eyes. She just hopes her body doesn’t give out before she can escape.

 

She’s resolved to make her move as soon as they stop to untie her, but her captors are still treating her like a human punching bag when a harsh scrape alerts her to her cell door opening.

 

It feels like it takes a truly inhuman amount of effort to lift her head to look at what’s going on, and once she has she almost wishes she hadn’t. Three more cloaked figures stream into the room and her heart sinks dejectedly; there’s no way she can go up against six assailants and live to see the other side of it.

 

“What are you doing?” one of the new figures asks angrily. “His Lordship is getting impatient.”

 

“We were just getting her ready for him,” Death Eater One pants, chest heaving. Laying into a bound prisoner is tiring work, apparently.

 

“Yes. She certainly looks ready,” the new Death Eater replies, the sarcasm clear in his voice, and Hermione wonders absently if he’s rolling his eyes behind that impassive mask. “Enough of this foolishness. Bring her up to the Great Hall. Now.”

 

Death Eater One scowls and swears under his breath as he turns back to Hermione, who gives him a blood-filled smile. Everything hurts, from her scalp to her toes, but she’ll be damned if she gives these cretins the satisfaction of seeing her break.

 

They undo her restraints and haul her to her feet, and even without the odds being stacked so completely against her she realises how foolish her plans to escape were when her legs immediately buckle underneath her.

 

She goes down with a yelp, sharp stabs of pain radiating up from her knee and into her hip. They must have fractured her kneecap, and the pain from even putting the slightest amount of weight on it brings tears to her eyes.

 

“You morons, the girl can barely walk.” The new Death Eater sounds truly angry now. Hermione doesn’t know if that’s better or worse for her.

 

“She’ll walk,” Death Eater One growls, hauling Hermione roughly upright and ignoring her second whimper of pain. “And if not she’ll be dragged.”

 

It’s a long way from where she’s being held to where they’ve been summoned, and in the end they do end up having to drag her most of the way. Every step is pure, unfiltered agony, and Hermione wonders just how delusional she must have been to think she could ever make a successful escape attempt against these people.

 

After what feels like an age they reach the Great Hall, where she’s paraded past what must be two dozen Death Eaters all silently lining the walls. She keeps her gaze firmly on the floor, refusing to acknowledge any of them until she’s dropped unceremoniously at the foot of a raised dais.

 

For a long beat there’s silence in the room, the only sound Hermione can hear is her own laboured breathing. Finally she dares to raise her gaze, and the sight she’s confronted with hits her harder than any punch to the stomach.

 

The  _ thing _ in front of her, seated on what looks to be a throne made entirely of bones, can barely be called human. Grey skin stretched taut across protruding bone, a hole in the middle of his face where his nose should have been. Harry had given descriptions of Voldemort on numerous occasions, but somehow it’s a thousand times worse looking upon this abomination of nature in person.

 

Brown eyes meet red, and Hermione instantly regrets her daring as a slithering smile stretches across the Dark Lord’s face. He lifts his wand almost lazily, his wrist lax as he points it directly at Hermione.

 

“ _ Legilimens _ .”

 

Hermione has been training in Occlumency for years, and she likes to think she mastered the art of mind-shielding just like she masters any new discipline she sets her mind to. Even Snape had once grudgingly admitted that her technique was ‘adequate’. 

 

Voldemort tears through her barriers like they’re made of paper. 

 

He wades through her memories quicker than she can even process, images of her muggle childhood flashing up alongside more recent recollections from Hogwarts and her time at Grimmauld Place. Her parents, her teachers, her friends. No memory is left undisturbed, nothing is safe from his savage onslaught.

 

And then it’s finished just as quickly as it started, and Hermione is once again left alone in her own mind. She falls forward onto her hands and knees, retching as her body rebels against the invasion on top of everything else.

 

“It is as I suspected,” Voldemort’s voice, high-pitched and hissing, echos around the halls. “Albus’s replacement has been continuing his tactic of compartmentalization. The girl knows nothing we do not already know.”

 

Boos echo around the chambers, and Hermione doesn’t know whether she should feel relieved that she hasn’t been forced to divulge anything of value, or terrified that she’s reached the end of her usefulness and thus most probably her life.

 

Voldemort raises one spindly hand to quell his followers, waiting for the noise to abate before continuing. “No matter. The mudblood can still be valuable in other ways.”

 

Hermione barely has time to process his words before his wand is once more turned on her, eyes glittering dangerously.

 

“ _ Crucio _ .”

 

Pain the likes of which she has never known ricochets through her body. She cries out as her body contorts, her existing injuries flaring in protest as her spine arches in a futile attempt to escape the assault. The pain is endless, all consuming, it eats her alive from the inside out until suddenly it’s gone, and she’s left gasping on the cold stone floor.

 

“Why?” she can’t stop herself from asking, even though she knows there doesn’t need to be a reason for Voldemort to torture her this way. “You already said I don’t know anything.”

 

Voldemort laughs, a cold, grating sound that sends chills down her spine. “My dear girl, this isn’t for you. It’s for him.”

 

Slowly Hermione turns her head towards where he’s gesturing, the aftereffects of the unforgivable still pounding around her skull. It takes her longer than it probably should to recognise the kneeling figure surrounded by three Death Eater guards, but when she does she gasps in shock.

 

Crusted blood covers Snape’s face so completely it’s hard to discern his usually striking features. His robes are torn and his right arm is hanging at an awkward angle down by his side. His head is bowed, his whole body hunched over in pain.

 

“It seems our loyal spy isn’t quite as loyal as he had given us to believe, a fact you are of no doubt aware.” Voldemort’s voice sounds almost gleeful as one of the Death Eaters roughly grabs at Snape’s hair, jerking his head up so he’s forced to meet Hermione’s gaze. Hermione can only watch dumbfounded as a flurry of emotions fly across her ex-professor’s face; recognition, shock, horror, and finally the resignation of a man who knows he’s been beaten.

 

It’s the resignation that strikes fear into Hermione’s heart more effectively than anything Voldemort and his followers have done to her.

 

“Severus has done an admirable job of keeping the Order’s secrets - ah -  _ secret _ ,” Voldemort laughs that awful laugh of his again, apparently delighted with his own witticism. “It appears that he is willing to sacrifice his own life to keep me from the information I desire.”

 

Snape finally tears his gaze away from Hermione to glare disdainfully up at the Dark Lord, his mouth twisting into a grimace as he remains determinedly silent. Voldemort waves a lazy hand at Snape, as if amused by his antics. “I do wonder if he’ll be equally reticent when it’s somebody else’s life on the line.”

 

Another round of  _ Crucio _ hits Hermione square in the chest, and she arches and screams in sharp agony. The pain is gone almost as quickly as it started, leaving her to draw in great gulps of air. 

 

“Are the secrets you hold valuable enough to sacrifice this girl’s life for, Severus?” Voldemort’s voice is soft, almost gentle. “Are you really willing to see another soul tortured because of your own shortcomings?”

 

Hermione can see the conflict cloud Snape’s eyes, but it’s Hermione he’s staring at, not Voldemort, as he pinches his lips resolutely closed. Hermione feels her chest twist with emotion as understanding hits. Voldemort cannot know of the Order’s plans. Too many lives -  current and future - depend on that fact. Snape cannot give Voldemort what he wants. Snape  _ will not _ give Voldemort what he wants. Which means now she must suffer the consequences.

 

The aftereffects of the curse are still making her body spasm uncontrollably, but she makes herself nod determinedly at Snape in acceptance. She wants him to know that she understands what he has to do. She wonders if she would be strong enough to do the same if the tables were turned. 

 

Snapes expression darkens. and for a moment Hermione thinks he’s displeased with her gesture. Panic sparks in her chest at the idea that he had been expecting something else from her, something  _ more _ . Then his eyes close and his head tilts forward an inch, the smallest of gestures so subtle Hermione doubts anyone else in the room has even noticed. It’s the best acknowledgement he can give in the circumstances, and Hermione feels like she can breathe just a little bit easier. 

 

“Still nothing?” Voldemort asks, voice almost curious. “Shall we try again?” He turns his wand on Hermione, his tone dropping low and deadly as he casts the unforgivable on her once more.

 

This time the pain seems to last for an eternity. Longer. The entire room falls away as Hermione’s world shrinks down to the white hot knives stabbing their way through her body. She can’t think, can’t  _ breathe _ . She forgets all about Voldemort, and his Death Eaters, and Snape, her entire focus on the pain that is taking over her body one cell at a time.

 

This time when the curse ends the pain remains, hurling itself around her body like a terrible echo.

 

“So stubborn, the pair of you,” Voldemort’s voice slithers underneath her tingling skin, lodging itself in her chest as she heaves, struggling to draw breath. “You make this so much harder than it needs to be.”

 

Hermione drags her head upright from where it’s lolling against her chest, the movement requiring every ounce of strength she has left. “Fuck you,” she spits, tasting the blood coating her lips as she speaks. She refuses to look away from the madman on his throne. If these are to be her final moments she won’t spend them cowering.

 

Voldemort lets out a high pitched rasp, clapping his hands together delightedly. “Oh my dear girl, if you only knew the irony of your words.”

 

A nod from him brings two Death Eaters forward to haul her roughly to her feet.  A snap of his long fingers, and Hermione gasps as cool air rushes over her inflamed body. She knows without having to check that she’s naked, and the ramifications of that development swiftly follow.

 

“No.  _ No _ ,” she gasps, writhing in her captors’ hold in a futile attempt to preserve her modesty. For the first time she hears the fear bleed into her voice, but she can no longer contain it in the face of what’s surely about to follow. Her eyes dart in panic to where Snape is still restrained, desperate for evidence that she’s somehow misunderstood her predicament, but the horrified realisation on the other man’s face only serves to terrify her further.

 

“I want you to know that I take no pleasure in this,” Voldemort’s voice is so calm, so even. A sharp counterpoint to the terror coursing through her veins as rough hands force her flat on her back on the cold stone floor. “If you had only given me the information I required in the first place, I would not have to resort to such...unsavory tactics.”

 

“Don’t touch her.” They’re the first words Hermione has heard Snape speak since she was brought into the room, the harsh rasp of his voice highlighting the torture that has clearly been wrought on him this past week. She can just about crane her head to look at him, and the expression he has leveled at the Dark Lord is one that promises death.

 

Voldemort merely laughs that horrific scratching sound of his again, turning his attention to his fallen spy. “Severus, Severus. You know you can stop this all before it even starts. Just tell me what I desire...” he pauses to level a saccharine smile at Hermione before facing Snape again. “...and the mudblood can walk free.”

 

Snape’s face contorts into one of absolute anguish, but no more words escape from his white-lined lips.

 

She doesn’t blame him, she tries to tell herself as she squeezes her eyes shut against yet more hands spreading her limbs wide, exposing her most private areas for the world to see. She would never be able to forgive herself if Snape picked her over the Order. Whatever happens to her next, it’s a small price to pay to ensure the future of the wizarding world.

 

If only she can make her trembling body believe that.

 

She can hear the catcalls and jeers start as a feather-light touch caresses her inner thigh, and she instinctively flinches, desperately trying to jam her knees together.

 

“Calm, Granger,” a low, dulcet voice croons, and Hermione flinches harder as she recognises the owner of the voice. Forcing her eyes open she stares in horror as Lucius Malfoy kneels between her spread legs. 

 

“Y- You,” she stammers, unable to process the sudden appearance of Draco’s father and his apparent role in her upcoming assault. 

 

“Me,” Lucius agrees, elegant fingers continuing their horrific exploration of her flesh. “We’re going to have such fun together, you and I.”

 

His fingers trace up to brush over her clit, and Hermione shudders in revulsion at the featherlight touch. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

 

“One moment, Lucius.” Voldemort’s serpentine voice cuts through the air, and for a moment Hermione can see the ugly flicker of rage cross Lucius’ features before he schools them into placid servitude. “I believe you’re forgetting something.”

 

Hermione cranes her head awkwardly towards Voldemort, her frantic denial of her situation swiftly losing ground to the fear of the unknown. She watches, muscles in her neck straining, as the Dark Lord waves his wand in front of him and a long, emerald green object materializes seemingly out of thin air.

 

“You know how I despise the idea of mudbloods  _ breeding _ .” Voldemort stresses the last word like others might say  _ defecating _ , but Hermione is too distracted by the object floating towards them to pay much attention to his words. As it gets closer she starts to be able to make out the item more clearly, and her heart stutters in her chest as she finally recognizes its silicone texture and decidedly phallic shape.

 

Not just phallic, she realizes with increased horror as the thing finally deposits itself into Lucius’ outstretched hand. The object is cut like a cobra rearing to strike, hood flared wide and fangs exposed. As Lucius grasps the flared base of the toy the cobra springs to life, pulsing and writing in anticipation. 

 

“What...what are you…” Hermione hates the way her voice cracks over her words, but fear is coursing hot and fast through her veins. That... that  _ thing _ can’t go inside of her, it just can’t.

 

Lucius ignores her in favor of stroking a long finger down the snake’s head, smirk firmly back in place as the animated toy shudders and closes its hood under his ministrations.

 

“Good girl,” he says fondly, and Hermione knows he isn’t talking to her. “Are you ready to play?”

 

“Please,” Hermione whispers as Lucius uses one hand to spread her folds, and the other to line the toy up against her entrance. “Please...don’t…”

 

Lucius pauses, just long enough for hope to flicker in Hermione’s chest. Then his mouth twists cruelly and he shoves the toy all the way inside of her in one rough stroke.

 

_ Fuck _ , it hurts. It hurts more than Hermione ever thought it was possible to hurt. The Cruciatus curse feels like a distant memory as she’s invaded, her insides stretched wide as the snake delves inside of her, deeper than anything has any right to go. She gasps and arches against her restraints, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as fire carves a path through her lower body. 

 

She’s far from a blushing virgin - a school full of hormonal teenagers steeped in the near-constant fear of imminent death swiftly put paid to that idea - but the snake inside her is larger than any man could ever be, and she’s never taken so much as a finger before without the slick of her own arousal helping things along. She can feel every ridge of silicone against her insides, scraping harshly against her unprepared walls. Above her Lucius smiles, his expression twisted with malice as he draws the snake almost the whole way out of her before brutally shoving it back in and  _ god _ , it somehow hurts more the second time around.

 

She can feel the base of the toy pressed up against the apex of her thighs, the plastic cool and hard against her heated skin. Against her better judgement she blinks away tears to stare down at where the toy has ravaged her, and finds her vision suddenly swimming as she takes in the prominent bulge pressing out against her lower stomach.

 

She can practically see the indent of its fangs.

 

“Oh...oh god,” she moans as the snake springs to life inside of her, undulating against her inner walls and making the indent in her abdomen pulse. She can feel the cobra’s hood flaring, locking the toy in place inside of her, and she has to bite down the waves of nausea that are threatening to choke her.

 

“She likes you,” Lucius says almost fondly, bringing the tip of his wand to rest against the toy’s base. “Now to make sure she stays.”

 

Hermione might have been able to recognise the incantation if the result hadn’t distracted her so completely. What feels like a thousand tiny needles spring out of the base of the toy, embedding themselves in the sensitive flesh surrounding her core and making her cry out. A flash of white hot heat, and what smells horrifyingly like burning flesh, and Hermione knows instinctively that the toy has somehow been melded to her skin.

 

She probably would have passed out from the pain if the snake’s movements inside of her hadn’t been keeping her so horrifically present.

 

“Very good.” Voldemort’s voice sounds almost gleeful, and Hermione slowly turns pain-glazed eyes towards the Dark Lord, shocked to realise she had almost forgotten his presence. “Lucius, show our friend Severus the results of his … inaction.”

 

Lucius smiles another one of those vicious smiles of his, standing gracefully and bowing mockingly to Hermione before stepping aside. 

 

Hermione moans and closes her eyes in denial as she sees that her ex-professor has been maneuvered closer during her time suffering at Lucius’ hands. The Death Eaters restraining him now have him held less than two feet away from her, directly in line with Hermione’s spread legs. One of his captors has gripped his chin roughly, and is forcing his gaze to remain fixed on the scene in front of him.

 

She can feel her heartbeat racing, her breath coming in thick, heavy gasps as panic threatens to overwhelm her. She can’t be seen like this, not by somebody she respects. Not by him.

 

Somehow it’s not the act of debasement that threatens to break her, it’s that somebody she knows is here to bear witness to it. She has no idea what that says about her as a person, only that she doesn’t know if she can bear it for one more second.

 

“Have you changed your mind yet, Severus?” Voldemort’s question coats her skin like tar, and she whimpers in despair. She’s terrified of what will happen if Snape doesn’t break. She’s terrified of what will happen if he does. 

 

Silence fills the hall, loud enough to deafen, and Hermione roughly collects what little is left of her dignity as she forces herself to meet Snape’s eyes. The older man’s gaze is one of crushing resignation, an apology and a curse all wrapped up into one devastatingly broken expression. Hermione wishes she were strong enough to say something pithy, to let him know that  _ she _ knows he’s done the right thing. But everything hurts too much for that. 

 

“Very well then,” Voldemort says with what sounds like genuine regret. “Then let us begin.”

 

_ Begin _ ? Hermione’s brain struggles to comprehend Voldemort’s words as she’s swiftly manhandled onto her hands and knees facing Snape, the thick length inside of her jarring her insides with every sudden movement. She’s already been tortured. Penetrated and violated. The evidence is still inside of her, what more could possibly be in store?  

 

She’s quickly made painfully aware of just how naive that thought is as cool fingers start to grope at the swell of her arse.

 

“I will admit,” Lucius’ voice practically purrs as his fingers dig painfully into the globes of flesh, spreading her wide to reveal her tight pucker. “I was marginally disappointed at not being able to sample that delectable cunt of yours.” Hermione shivers in disgust at the vulgar language, squeezing her eyes shut so that she doesn’t have to meet her ex-professor’s gaze while Lucius explores her from behind. “But now I see that I get to experience far  _ rarer _ delights instead.” 

 

One long finger moves to trace over her hole, and Hermione jerks violently away from the offending digit. She doesn’t get far - her limbs still held in place by a host of Death Eater cronies - and Lucius’ mocking laugh rings sharply through the hall.

 

“My, you’re a flighty one, aren’t you?” he says, pressing more firmly against her entrance. “Tell me, Granger, have you ever taken it up the arse before?”

 

Hermione bites her bottom lip to prevent herself from making any noise. She refuses to give them the satisfaction of vocalizing her fear. Her entire body starts to shake with the effort of not fighting against her restraints; every survival instinct in her body at war with the knowledge that her useless struggles will only bring her captors more pleasure. 

 

She hears a growl from behind her, and then sharp pain floods through her lower body as Lucius roughly thrusts his finger into her. It feels so foreign, so  _ wrong _ , and Hermione’s entire body convulses in open revolt at the intrusion.

 

“Answer me,” Lucius hisses, twisting and crooking his finger and making her yelp in pain. “Or this will be far worse for you than it needs to be.”

 

“No,”  Hermione bites out between clenched teeth. “I haven’t.”

 

Lucius laughs darkly, thrusting his finger in and out of her hole roughly. It feels like he’s taking a layer of her insides with him on every outward draw. “Now that does surprise me. To hear my son tell it, you Gryffindors sluts are all sexual deviants.”

 

“And what would Draco think of you now?” Hermione surprises herself with her own daring, the words bursting from her in an angry rush before she can think better of her actions. “To know that his father takes pleasure in  _ raping _ someone his age?”

 

A pause, and Hermione has a second to wonder if her words have somehow hit home. Then laugher erupts around the room as the entire Death Eater contingency apparently latches onto some hidden joke.

 

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Lucius retorts smoothly, reaching forward to grab at Hermione’s hair and jerk her head roughly to the side. To her horror Hermione recognises the shock of silver hair behind one of the many Death Eater masks, and just like that one more anonymous bystander becomes somebody real, yet another person she knows who has become privy to her mortifying debasement. 

 

“No,” she gasps as she tries to tear her gaze away from Draco, watching silently from the sidelines. She can practically see his trademark sneer behind his mask. 

 

Lucius laughs and rattles her skull like a dog with a rabbit in his jaws. “I’ll wager he’s disappointed that he’s not the one who gets to take the Gryffindor Princess’ anal virginity,” he croons sadistically, shoving his finger even deeper inside Hermione’s tract. “But he’ll get his turn once I’m done with you. All of my brothers will.”

 

A cheer erupts around the room, and Hermione feels dread settle deep inside her gut. Submitting to Lucius’ assault is already almost more than she can handle, but this? She won’t survive this.

 

“Now,” Lucius commands as he finally withdraws his finger completely, and Hermione practically sags in relief at the sudden lack of pain. “I want you to keep those pretty eyes of yours open and locked on Severus. I want him to see  _ everything _ when I fuck you.”

 

Hermione scowls and pointedly scrunches her eyes shut. Lucius might be able to do whatever he wants to her body, but he can’t make her take any sort of active part in it.

 

Yet again, she’s reminded forcefully of her naivety as Lucius sighs and taps her temple with his wand. 

 

“Why must you insist on making this so difficult?  _ Imperio _ .”

 

Hermione’s eyes snap open, locking onto Snape’s like they’re the only thing left in the world. Her mind is screaming at her to look away, to shield herself from the disgust that is sure to show in her ex-professor’s expression as he watches her be summarily fucked from behind. But unforgivables are powerful, and uncompromising, and her gaze stays fixed on those dark orbs that feel like they’re penetrating her just as completely as Lucius is about to.

 

“Good girl,” Lucius croons, and his words feel like a thousand fire-ants crawling over her skin. 

 

She hears the swish of fabric, and jeers from other Death Eaters as Lucius exposes himself behind her. One hand leaves her arse, and she hears him grunt as he swiftly brings himself to readiness. Part of her wants to look over her shoulder, so that she can be prepared. The rest of her wants to stay looking firmly forward, to stay in denial. 

 

She doesn’t know whether to feel grateful or enraged that Lucius’ curse has taken that choice away from her as well.

 

Snape has somehow managed to school his expression into something dangerously neutral, but Hermione can still see the rage flicking in his eyes. She wants to say something, do something, give him a signal,  _ anything _ . But all rational thought abandons her as she feels the thick head of Lucius’ cock line up against her tight hole, swiftly replaced with white hot panic. 

 

“I won’t lie to you, this is going to hurt,” Lucius says almost conversationally, and Hermione harshly stomps down on the hysteria that immediately surges up through her chest and into her throat. She won’t scream. She won’t give them the satisfaction. 

 

Lucius shoves into her in one harsh thrust, and Hermione  _ screams _ .

 

Nothing,  _ nothing _ on this godforsaken earth could have ever prepared her for Lucius entering her dry. His cock is monstrous, a great, surging beast that forces its way into her and splits her in two. There’s nothing to ease his progress, nothing to soothe her insides as he fucks into her, all the way to the hilt.

 

Hermione screams, and thrashes, and Lucius laughs and grabs a chunk of her hair to hold her steady as he draws out. Something inside of her finally gives way, and white hot sparks of pain radiate out from her core. She feels a rush of liquid suddenly slick her passage, and bile rises in her throat at the knowledge that her own blood is going to ease her attacker’s way.

 

Lucius thrusts in again, able to move faster now that friction has been marginally lessened, and Hermione wails, arching her back in a desperate attempt to avoid his assault. It’s agony, pure torture. Hermione would spill every secret the Order has a thousand times over to get it to stop. 

 

“Please,  _ please _ ,” she begs. She doesn’t know what she’s begging for; for Lucius to stop, for Snape to tell Voldemort what he wants to know, for death to come and grant her sweet release. All of it and none of it. She just wants it to end.

 

“Oh fuck, you’re so  _ tight _ .” Lucius gasps, hands moving to her hips so that he can pick up speed. His hips slam into her arse so hard her entire body shakes, and she doesn’t even try and stop the tears streaming down her face. She’s sobbing, babbling, all pretence of dignity forsaken as Lucius tears her apart from the inside out. 

 

After what feels like an eternity Lucius’ fingers dig harshly into the tender flesh of her hips and he jerks violently, body stilling as his cock spends its release inside of her. The harsh liquid burns her torn insides, and Hermione whimpers pitifully as Lucius roughly pulls out of her.

 

“What a mess you are,” Lucius pants heavily, one finger tracing lightly through the semen coating her ruined hole. Hermione can only gasp through her sobs, raking in shuddery breath after shuddery breath. She can’t think, can’t focus. Her entire world has shrunk down to one singular sensation. 

 

Pain. 

 

Lucius spends a few more moments toying with her entrance, taking cruel pleasure in the way her body shudders through the aftereffects of his assault. “I could play with you all day,” he comments idly as he massages a few stray streaks of spunk into her skin. “But alas, it’s time for my brothers to have their turn.”

 

Hermione can’t help the whimper that escapes her at the threat of yet more men taking her, and Lucius laughs delightedly at her fear.

 

“Oh yes, there’s quite a line forming,” he taunts, then pauses as if considering something new. “Unless Severus has changed his mind, of course.”

 

For the first time since Lucius first breached her, she allows her attention to return to the face she hasn’t been allowed to take her eyes off. Now that she can focus on something other than her body being ripped apart, she’s ashamed of her weakness. Some soldier she turned out to be, falling to pieces with barely a thrust. She’s only grateful that Snape holds the information Voldemort desires and not her, or the war would have already been lost, and all because of Lucius Malfoy’s cock.

 

It’s only the force of the Imperius curse holding her gaze in place that stops her eyes from falling closed in self recrimination. What on earth must her ex-professor be thinking? After all he’s done for the war effort, everything he’s sacrificed in his years as a spy? He must be horrified to know that the Order has someone as pathetic as her as a member.

 

Snape’s mouth twists into a grimace, but still he remains silent. Hermione forcefully tells herself that she’s glad. She knows that it’s a lie, but it’s a lie she’ll address some other time. 

 

Lucius sighs dramatically. “Very well. In that case I suppose we should set up a tally, see how quickly we can get the mudblood into double digits.” His words are greeted by a chorus of cheers, and he lightly draws his wand in a vertical line down her left arse cheek. Hermione has to bite down on her lower lip to not react as her flesh splits open along its path. “So, who’s next?”

 

Hermione hears footsteps approach behind her, but doesn’t get a glimpse of her next attacker before clammy hands grab her waist, dragging her backwards a few inches. 

 

“I’ve always wanted to fuck a Gryffindor,” the man growls before thrusting forward, burying himself inside of Hermione’s arse with barely a moment’s hesitation. 

 

Hermione gasps, clamping down even harder on her lower lip as the man draws out and shoves back in again with a guttural moan. The pain isn’t as sharp as it was with Lucius, his cock having already stretched her insides far wider than she ever thought possible. But her channel is tender; bruised and more than a bit torn. Each thrust brings with it an ache that radiates up her spine and into her brain.  

 

But she survived Lucius, which means she’ll survive this anonymous cock too. She forces herself to breathe in time with the man’s wild pumping, determined not to given her audience the satisfaction of losing herself the way she did when Lucius was inside of her. 

 

She hears footsteps again, and suddenly her view of Snape is blocked by Lucius appearing in front of her. He smiles down at her almost indulgently, one hand lazily grasping his still-exposed cock while the other reaches out to stroke her face. “Look at you, on your knees where you belong,” he says, chuckling as Hermione flinches away from his caress. “You should be grateful that my brothers and I are even willing to take you. When our Lord comes to power you won’t even be good enough for that.”

 

“Lucky me,” Hermione grunts, the words losing some of their bite as she’s rocked forward by a particularly wild thrust from behind.

 

Lucius acts like he doesn’t even hear her as he takes a slow, menacing step forward, grasping his cock more firmly so that he can guide it towards Hermione’s lips. “You made quite a mess of me girl. Clean it up.”

 

“You put that thing anywhere near my mouth, and I’ll bite it off,” Hermione hisses, determinedly ignoring the streaks of red that still coat Lucius’ member.

 

Lucius’ smile grows wider, exposing a row of perfectly pearled teeth. “Brave little lion,” he says calmly, drawing his hand away from Hermione’s cheek and returning it in a vicious backhand. Hermione yelps as she’s knocked to the side, the cock pistoning inside of her catching her rim at an awkward angle that brings tears to her eyes.

 

“Watch it!” her anonymous attacker complains, lining back up again and thrusting in roughly. “You’re throwing off my rhythm.”

 

Lucius ignores the other man, crouching down so that he can look Hermione directly in the eye. “Brave,  _ foolish _ little lion,” he taunts, gently stroking the cheek he just slapped. “I know seven different ways to remove all the teeth in your mouth, and only five of them require magic.”

 

Hermione shudders in horror at the threat, clamping her jaw tightly together as if that will make any difference at all. 

 

“Now, now, Lucius.” Voldemort’s voice sings through the air, and this time Hermione is sure she doesn’t imagine Lucius’ reaction to his master’s interruption. “You’re blocking dear Severus’ view. We wouldn’t want him to miss out on a moment of the entertainment now would we?”

 

Lucius’ face twists into a bitter snarl, but his movements are as fluid as ever as he rises back to standing. “Of course not, my Lord,” he says with a graceful bow towards his master. “Forgive me, I was overeager.”

 

Voldemort waves his hand lazily in acquiescence, and Lucius steps to the side with a leer at Snape. “Enjoy the show, it’s all for you after all.” 

 

The man behind her finishes with an ugly grunt, warm liquid filling her insides in a disgusting flood. He pulls out with a contented sigh, wiping the end of his dick on her arse-cheek before adding his own strike to the tally Lucius started. The yelp has barely escaped Hermione’s mouth before another another man, another  _ cock _ , moves to take his place, and Hermione starts to retreat inside her own head. 

 

She repeats Charms sequences to herself, and when she runs out of those she moves on to Transfiguration spells. She recites her way through every healing spells she knows, whispering a few of them under her breath in the vague hope she might be able to cast them wandlessly - she can’t - then goes through all the hexes she can think of. 

 

She steers clear of Potions recipes; the thought of going through those with Snape so close feels almost sacrilegious.

 

It’s easier with some men more than others. Some Death Eaters are almost laughable in their irrelevance, stepping up to the plate with barely a whisper and finishing in a matter of thrusts. Hermione finds it mercifully easy to block those men out, the pain starting to recede through repetition and the jeers and taunts fading to background noise that she refuses to pay attention to.

 

Others are more creative, and Hermione has to fight harder to keep hold of her sanity with them. One Death Eater decides to repurpose the Imperius curse on her, and makes her beg for his cock in increasingly perverse ways. It’s only a small mercy that he doesn’t think to build on top of Lucius’ command, so Hermione can finally close her eyes and pretend that her ex-professor isn’t watching her get fucked by half of the wizarding population of Britain. She doesn’t want to have to see his expression as she pleads for her rapist to fuck her like the filthy mudblood she is.

 

Another one spends far too much time crouched between her spread legs, charming the snake inside of her to vibrate and pulse. He then casts a pain-reduction spell on her, and hope flares briefly in Hermione’s chest at the thought that someone might be taking pity on her. 

 

That hope is shattered a thousand-fold when he follows up with an arousal spell, and she realises that in the absence of pain, her body is once more able to process pleasure.

 

The Death Eater fucks her arse slowly, almost gently, thrusting his hips in time with the toy’s movements, and despite every cell in her brain crying out that it’s wrong, filthy,  _ dirty _ , her body seems to be working on a whole different script. He rips an orgasm out of her, and then two more before he’s had his fill, and with every release Hermione feels a part of her wither and die inside her. She hates herself for hoping that the next man will be rough with her again, if only because then she won’t be forced into another disgusting parody of compliance.

 

She loses count of how many men have their way with her; they ran out of space on her left arse cheek long ago, moving on to the right cheek and then down onto her legs. The men who were originally holding her down have left to take their turn behind her, and nobody has come to replace them, but she can barely keep her head off the floor, let alone think to make a bid for freedom.

 

She wishes they would stop. Not so that she can escape - she knows there’s no coming back from tonight - but so she can collapse in peace. 

 

“You fuckers, you told me she was a good ride,” her current attacker grunts unhappily as he slips inside of her ruined hole. “She’s sloppier than a Knockturn Alley whore back here.”

 

“Maybe you just have a tiny prick,” Hermione slurs, cheek pressed against the cool tiles underneath her. She’s too tired and in too much pain to care about repercussions any more.  

 

Her brain rattles around her skull as the man - apparently not appreciating his fucktoy talking back - clobbers her about the head. 

 

“Shut the fuck up,” he screeches, and Hermione deliriously wonders if she hit closer to home than she realized. “Dolohov, come over her and help me teach this slut a lesson.”

 

She hears another step of footsteps approach her from behind, but she’s quickly distracted by the original man thrusting forward, plastering himself along her back as he surges inside of her. The new angle tugs at her hole, abused beyond measure by this point, but she barely has time to process the sharp stab of pain before a second blunt force is pressing at her entrance. 

 

“Fuck, I’m not sure I’ll fit,” the other man -  _ Dolohov _ \- grunts as the tip of his cock struggles to find space alongside the first man’s member. He shoves up against her rim a few times, growling as it gives one last show of resistance before succumbing to the persistent intrusion, allowing him to force himself inside of her as well.

 

Hermione gasps in horror as the two men start to thrust in an uneven rhythm, her hole stretching impossibly wider as she’s penetrated by both of them at the same time. The new stretch is almost unbearable after so many hours of torture, but it’s the sheer depravity of the act has her blinking back tears. 

 

“Look at this slut, taking us both so easily,” one of the men jeers, and Hermione squeezes her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out their crass words. “It’s like she was made for this, taking two cocks at once.”

 

“Three, if you count the one in her twat,” the other man laughs, stumpy nails digging into Hermione’s sides as he jackhammers back and forth. “That’s all filth like this is good for, a set of holes to be used.”

 

“Shame we can’t plug her mouth as well, I bet she’s gagging for us to fill her up from every angle.”

 

Another round of jeers, and with every barbed taunt Hermione finds it harder and harder to block out their words. Is this really all she is now? Just a hole for for men to fill, to use and throw away once they’re done?

 

She chances a glance up at Snape, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. He’s staring at the three of them with such undisguised horror on his face that Hermione feels like she’s coated in a layer of grime. What on earth must she look like, on her knees with two men fucking her arse in tandem, like this is something her body was ever designed to do.

 

Maybe she really is a slut like they say. She’d have to be - wouldn’t she? - to be able to take multiple men into her body like this.

 

The two men finish at practically the same time, the one above her slumping onto her back so heavily her knees buckle. She hits the ground hard, her bloated stomach taking most of the brunt, and mortification hits anew as the impact forces a steady stream of come to start leaking out of her.

 

“Hah, we filled her up good and proper didn’t we?” One of the men laughs as he slides out of her, his fingers roughly shoving globs of come back inside her hole. “She’s practically bursting.”

 

“And with that, I believe it’s time for us to retire to somewhere more palatable.” Voldemort’s smooth voice cuts through the general din. “We may not have extracted the spy’s secrets, but we’ve taken something far more precious from the Order, and for that we have cause to celebrate.”

 

Hermione exhales a deep sigh, her gut clenching and unclenching furiously. She knows that this is the end for her, that any moment a flash of green light will bring about her demise. But somehow she can’t bring herself care. Not when the alternative is more hands, more cocks, more pain. 

 

Cracks echo throughout the room, as one by one Voldemort’s followers take their leave. Sudden, overwhelming tiredness hits her, and she slumps uncaring to the floor. Maybe she can sleep through her own murder; wouldn’t that be nice?

 

“Would you like me to dispose of this filth?” Lucius’ syrupy voice coats her skin like molasses. Another layer of muck on top of what everyone else has already left.

 

“Leave them,” Voldemort replies, tone dismissive.

 

“My Lord?” Lucius sounds as confused as Hermione suddenly feels. Leave them? Leave them to what?

 

“Lucius, my child, even now you understand so little.” Hermione hears the rustle of fabric as - for the first time all night - Voldemort stands. He walks slowly over towards where she’s lying, crouching down just in front of her. 

 

She can hear him breathing, faint and raspy and completely inhuman.

 

“We kill them, and they become martyrs for the Order to hang their righteous banner on. We keep them captive and we risk forcing their hand with some daringly stupid rescue.” He pauses, one spindly hand coming out to rake gently through Hermione’s matted curls, and of everything that’s been done to her tonight, somehow this feels the most violating.

 

“We leave them here. Let them return home to their compatriots and lick their wounds. The resistance will have no use for them now.” Hermione shudders, tears rolling down her cheeks as she silently accepts the truth of his words. They’ve broken her, far more than the Order will ever know how to fix. What good is she to anyone now?

 

Voldemort pauses, rising and moving away a few paces so that he can smile beatifically down at Snape, his hand reaching out to caress his head in the same manner. Snape flinches violently away from the gesture, baring his teeth up at the Dark Lord, and Voldemort simply laughs.

 

He reaches into his robes, and there’s a clatter as he drops two wands on the floor, just out of their reach. Hermione recognizes the light vine wood of her own wand, and she slumps forward, her body uncooperative as she desperately reaches out in a futile attempt to grasp at her salvation. The failed attempt draws another horrific laugh from Voldemort, still towering over both of them. 

 

“Look at them both,” he says delightedly, fixing his attention first on Snape and then on Hermione. “Useless, and used. Oh yes, they’ll be no threat to us at all.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for such positive responses to the last chapter. I was (probably understandably!) incredibly nervous about posting such an intense chapter, and I'm really glad you think I hit the right tone. Let me know what you think of this next update!

Hermione wakes to harsh sunlight streaming across her face.

 

Groaning - it feels like she's only just fallen asleep - she rolls over, determined to get another few hours rest. Let Ron and Harry be the ones to wake her for a change.

 

Sharp, unyielding pain hits her like the Hogwarts Express, and with it the memories of the past day and a half.  

 

She sits up with a gasp, ignoring the fire that lances through her body as she lurches upright in the bed she's somehow found herself in.

 

Where is she? How did she get here?

 

“Please try to stay calm, Miss Granger,” a hand presses gently against her shoulder and somewhere through the haze of fear Hermione recognizes Snape’s voice. “Your body has undergone considerable trauma.”

 

Hermione bites out a sharp laugh, unsurprised to hear the note of hysteria in her tone. “That's somewhat of an understatement, wouldn't you say?”

 

Snape's expression is sombre, and he merely bows his head in aquiensence.

 

She forces herself to take three deep breaths, and rational thought slowly begins to win out over the red mist of panic that is threatening to overwhelm her. Once her flight instincts finally accept that that she's no longer in immediate danger, she allows herself to be guided back into bed, groaning as her body protests even that small movement.

 

“They let us go.” It’s not a question, Hermione remembers that final exchange between Lucius and Voldemort well enough, but Snape nods his head in agreement nevertheless.

 

“So it would seem.”

 

“Where are we?” Hermione finally takes stock of her unfamiliar surroundings. Metal bed, nondescript furnishings. No window. One door. It feels like a prison.

 

“I brought us to an Order stronghold.” Close enough then. “We’ll be safe here.”

 

Hermione barks out another sharp laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement. What value does the word safe even hold, when the worst has already happened?

 

Pain ricochets around her body once more, and she winces gingerly. “I don’t suppose this place has a supply of healing potions hidden somewhere?” she asks, eyes darting around the bare furnishings.

 

Snape frowns. “You are still in pain?”

 

Hermione blushes, instinctively tugging the blankets all the way up to her neck. What was she thinking? Snape is clearly no stranger to torture at Voldemort’s hand, and she’s obviously been asleep for a while. He must think her so weak, to still be complaining.

 

Snape’s expression crumples at her reaction  and he stands up stiffly. “I administered the strongest pain remedy I had to hand,” he says, moving to rummage in a cabinet on the far side of the room. “If I had access to my own store room there would be more that I could do, but given the limited supplies we have-” the sound of tinkling glass fills the room as he sorts fruitlessly through the vials in the cabinet. “Blast it all!”

 

“It’s okay,” Hermione lies, hating how her voice quavers. “It’s not that bad, really.”

 

Snape sighs, and turns back towards her, walking to sit rigidly back down in the chair next to her bed. “You always have been a terrible liar, Miss Granger,” he says tiredly, and Hermione briefly wonders if the man has slept since they arrived at this place. “Poppy will be here in an hour or so. She will have more supplies with her, I am sure of it.”

 

It takes a moment for Hermione’s over-exerted brain to make the connection in her head, the use of the woman’s first name is still so unfamiliar to her. When she finally realises who Snape is referring to she gasps in horror.

 

“No, No! Madam Pomfrey can’t come here!” She flings herself to the side, ignoring her body’s protests she starts to frantically search through the bedside table next to her. “My wand. Oh Merlin, where’s my wand?” Some witch she is, losing track of her wand like this. No wonder it was so easy for her to be captured, tortured, _violated..._

 

Warm, familiar wood presses into her palm and she twists, wild-eyed and panicked as Snape carefully folds her wand into her dominant hand. “Breathe, Miss Granger, I beg of you. If you pass out before Poppy arrives I’ll never hear the end of it.”

 

“No!” Hermione exclaims again, shoving herself out of bed and across the room in an instant. Black spots flash across in her vision as she struggles to draw breath, the combination of fear and pain very nearly bringing her to her knees. Her magic hisses and sings as she casts every warding spell she knows around herself. “She can’t come here. Send her away.”

 

Snape frowns, and takes a step towards her, hands out in front of him like he’s trying to placate a frightened animal. His eyes stay determinedly fixed on her hairline, not wavering an inch south despite the ankle-length cotton nightdress she’s wearing, the thin sheen of magic coating the fabric suggesting that this wasn’t its original form. “I did as much as my field training allows, but you need to see a trained professional.”

 

“Not her.” Hermione insists, firmly shoving down the queasiness in her gut at the idea of Snape tending to her while she was unconscious. She levels her wand at Snape and ignores the flash of hurt and surprise that flickers across his features at her extreme response.

 

Snape draws to a stop, keeping his hands up in front of him. “It doesn’t have to be Poppy if you do not wish. Shall I send for someone from the Order? Molly perhaps?”

 

“You bring somebody I recognise through that door and I shall obliviate them and hex you.” Hermione bites out, her voice quavering even as her wand arm holds perfectly steady.

 

Snapes brow furrows, his mouth twisting as he tries to understand her concerns. “Forgive me, I don’t…”

 

“They can’t see me like this!” Hermione practically cries, her wards sparking as she throws more of her magic into them. “You heard what- what he said! If they know what happened, what his men _did_ to me, then I’m useless to the resistance.”

 

Snape’s expression darkens. “Any Order member who has a word to say about what you endured would not remain an Order member for very much longer.”

 

“It’s not what they’ll say, it’s what they’ll think!” Hermione stabs her wand viciously in Snape’s direction, unable to comprehend why the man can’t see what is so obvious to her. She can practically see their faces now; Harry’s expression crumpling as he adds one more person to the list of people he feels he’s failed, Ron’s mouth pinching in distaste as his imagination runs wild with him - not that anything he comes up with would be too far off the mark of course.  “They’ll look at me differently, _see_ me differently. I can’t have that if I’m- If I’m to continue being useful to the Order.”  

 

She needs to be the brains of the golden trio, not the body that was defiled by You-Know-Who. That can’t change, _it can’t._

 

Snape sighs, rubbing his temples. “Be that as it may, you need medical attention.”

 

Hermione opens her mouth to argue, but her body chooses that moment to side with her ex-professor. Pain lances out of her core and up her spine, so sharp that this time it really does bring her to her knees. Snape jerks forward as if to approach to her, but Hermione levels her wand at him once more to halt his progress.

 

“Find someone who doesn’t know who I am. Someone _anonymous_ ,” she pants, emphasising the last word with all of her remaining strength.

 

Snape’s eyes darken, and for a moment it looks like he’s going to protest further. Instead he gives a sharp nod. “The house wards are keyed to our magical signatures, nobody other than myself will be able to gain entry,” he says, not waiting for a response before spinning on his heel and exiting through the front door in a billow of black robes.

 

By the time Snape returns some hours later Hermione has dragged herself back into bed, the small act exhausting her beyond measure now that she’s not running on pure adrenaline. She’s steadfastly refused to catalog her injuries, instead spending the time constructing temporary glamours to hide her most distinguishing features.

 

He’s accompanied by a petite witch in St Mungos medi-robes, brown hair tied back in a severe bun that makes her look a little like Professor McGonagall. The witch takes one look at Hermione curled up in bed, and a small frown forms between her brows.

 

“I’m afraid I’ll need to you remove those charms, dear,” she says kindly but firmly. “Their aura will interfere with my diagnostic spells.”

 

“This is Healer Dresden,” Snape introduces as he locks and wards the door behind him. “She has assured me that she will conduct herself with the utmost discretion.”

 

“You may call me Eloise if you wish,” the healer offers with a gentle smile that Hermione pointedly ignores.

 

“Hello.” Hermione says briskly. “And I’m afraid I’m going to need you to enter into an unbreakable vow preventing you from revealing anything you see here today before I remove anything.”

 

The healer rears back in shock, turning accusingly towards Snape. “You didn’t say anything about an unbreakable?”

 

“I was unaware that there would be a need for one,” Snape replies, frowning at Hermione who merely glares back.

 

The healer turns back towards Hermione, and her expression softens a touch. “I understand you have concerns,” she says, “but I can assure you that the Hippocratic Oath I took when I became a qualified healer prevents me from disclosing anything outside of this room.”

 

“And what happens if you break that oath?” Hermione asks, raising an eyebrow at the witch.

 

“Well, there would be a disciplinary hearing,” she explains, “and depending on the infraction the repercussions could range from a fine to a suspension.”

 

“Then you’ll forgive me if I don’t put my trust in you wanting to avoid a _fine_ ,” Hermione replies rigidly. “Not when I know how little healers are paid and how wealthy our enemies are.”

 

The healer puffs up in outrage, “If you are insinuating that I could be _bought_ -” she begins, but Snape swiftly invervenes.

 

“Perhaps, a compromise,” he says, voice the same smooth silk that Hermione remembers from Potions class. “An unbreakable vow that merely stipulates that you will not break your Hippocratic Oath where this patient is concerned.”

 

“I would never break that oath for _any_ patient,” Eloise insists.

 

“Then this shouldn’t be a problem for you,” Hermione replies coolly.

 

The healer appraises Hermione for a long moment, then nods sharply. “Fine,” she concedes, walking over and holding out her hand. “You have my word.”

 

Hermione reaches out and clasps the healer’s outstretched hand, and Snape joins them to touch his wand to their grasp. Magic flares, bright and brilliant, before disappearing and sealing the vow.

 

Hermione feels the vow seep into her skin, and takes a deep breath before banishing her glamours. Eloise gives a short, aborted gasp as she recognises both her patient and the tapestry of abuse littering her skin.

 

“Now you see why I had to insist,” Hermione explains with a sad smile.

 

“Quite,” Eloise replies brusquely, and Hermione is grateful for her clinical tone. She doesn’t think she could handle sympathy from the healer at this moment.

 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Eloise nods, swiftly palming her wand. “Okay Miss Granger, I’ll begin with a round of diagnostics to determine the extent of your injuries. May I proceed?”

 

Hermione silently nods her consent, fingers clenching unconsciously into the sheets as Eloise steps forward and starts to mutter incantations. Bright ropes of light flow over Hermione’s body as the diagnostic spells run, the results etching themselves into a sheaf of parchment that materializes at the foot of the bed. Hermione closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe slowly, not wanting to think about what is being uncovered by the healer’s probing magic.

 

Once the spells have finished their survey the parchment flashes, and Eloise moves to collect the report. She scans the parchment quickly, muttering under her breath as she goes through the results. “Oh, my poor girl,” she says, so quietly Hermione is unsure whether she was supposed to have heard.

 

“I don’t want you to sugarcoat it,” Hermione says firmly, keeping her voice steady through sheer force of will. “Just tell me what needs to be done.”

 

Eloise looks up from the parchment to Hermione’s determined face, and nods another one of those sharp nods of hers. “Would you like Master Snape to step outside while I share the results?” she asks.

 

Hermione shrugs dismissively, “He saw it all real time, not like there’s much point in hiding anything from him now.”

 

Eloise blanches and turns to Snape questioningly, whose expression is practically murderous. Nevertheless, he bows his head in acceptance. “If Miss Granger would like me to stay, then I shall stay.”

 

The healer frowns but doesn’t contest the decision, running her finger down the parchment as she speaks. “You have a shattered kneecap, significant bruising both externally and internally, lacerations across much of your body, and a number of anal fissures. I’ll need to re-administer the field- _Episkey_ currently holding your knee together, and I can prescribe potions to heal the majority of the remaining damage, but I shall need to perform a closer inspection of your rectal area to assess whether stitches will be necessary.”

 

Hermione nods, closing her eyes against the embarrassment that immediately wells inside of her at the healer’s words. “Okay, what else?”

 

“I also identified strains of Chlamydia and Hepatitis-C in your blood, so at a minimum you will need to start potions courses to treat those. However my professional recommendation would be to start a full spectrum course, as some sexually transmitted diseases can go undetected in the first 48 hours after infection.”

 

“Understood.” She can practically feel the disease bubbling underneath her skin, and she barely resists the urge to start scratching frantically at the soft flesh of her forearm.  Wasn’t it enough that they had to take, rape and defile her? Did they have to infect her as well?

 

“Then there is obviously also the issue of the foreign object still inside of you.”

 

“W-what?” Hermione sits up sharply, expression horrified. “They- they put something inside of me?”

 

For the first time Eloise’s expression wavers. “Ah, forgive me. I assumed you were aware…”

 

“Aware of what!” Hermione exclaims, all pretense of control lost as she starts to pat down her arms and chest frantically. “What did they do to me?”

 

“The... _implement..._ Malfoy forced inside of you.” Snape saves the healer from having the job of explaining, voice practically dripping with distaste. “It has been bound in place by magic even I cannot break.”

 

“You- You’re telling me,” Hermione whispers, voice horrified as her hand slips underneath the covers and between her legs to confirm. “That that _snake_ is still inside of me? _”_

 

Her fingers brush up against cool plastic at the apex of her thighs, and she whimpers in horror. It’s still there. Oh Merlin, it’s still there…

 

“You did not feel its presence?” Eloise asks, and for the first time her voice holds an edge of pity.

 

“Of course I did!” Hermione exclaims, withdrawing her hand from between her legs sharply. “I can still feel everything they did to me. Every. Last. Thing.” She claps her hand over her mouth, trying and failing to quell the sob that tears out of her. “I thought it was just the aftereffects I could feel, it didn’t even cross my mind that…”

 

“I will find the counter-spell,” Snape interrupts firmly, one hand coming out to hover impotently over Hermione’s shoulder, like he wants to make offer comfort but is unsure whether it will be welcome. “Believe me, Miss Granger, when I say I shall find it even if it is the last thing I do.”

 

“I’m afraid I will also need to examine the affected area more closely.” Eloise says, a touch of reluctance to her tone. “I will need to confirm that there isn’t any infection of the bound tissue, and identify if and how you will be able to relieve yourself with the object in place.”

 

Hermione sobs again, feeling completely overwhelmed. She’s trying, she’s trying so hard to be strong, to get through this with what little dignity she has left still intact. But it feels like the horrors never cease.

 

“I understand this is a lot to process,” Eloise says gently. “I will do everything in my power to make my examination as painless as possible. Would you like a moment before we continue?”  


Hermione nods mutely, eyes fluttering closed as tears start to drip down her cheeks. She really thought she could do this, get through this humiliation without breaking down like the weak mess she so clearly is. More fool her.

 

“Are you happy to proceed?”

 

There’s nothing at all about this situation that Hermione is happy about, but she nods her consent nonetheless, forcing down her small hiccoughs of sorrow. Eloise moves to the foot of the bed, transfiguring one of the static kitchen chairs into a small rolling stool. “If you could please lie on your back and bend your knees, bringing your heels as close to your buttocks as you can. When you’re ready I’ll fold the sheets up to your waist.” She pauses as Hermione shuffles into position - her movements slow and stiff thanks to the plethora of injuries that still adorn her body - then turns her attention to Snape. “Master Snape, if you would be so kind as to stay at the other end of the bed.”

 

Snape nods and silently positions his chair parallel to Hermione’s head. She doesn’t know whether she feels better or worse for his presence.

 

“Ready?” the healer asks again, placing her hands on either side of Hermione’s legs. Hermione nods mutely, not trusting her voice in that moment, and Eloise briskly folds the sheets to bunch at her waist. Hermione winces as cool air rushes her bare legs.

 

“I’m going to apply pressure around the affected area,” the healer explains, conjuring on a pair of latex gloves. “Please tell me if any places I touch are particularly tender.”

 

Hermione rolls her eyes skywards as cool, clinical fingers start to press at the soft skin of her upper thighs. None of the Death Eaters had ventured down here, presumably fearing Voldemort’s wrath for straying too close to his toy. Still, the touch is foreign, and desperately unwelcome even as her rational mind insists that it’s necessary.

 

“I don’t see any inflammation,” the healer talks as she works, and Hermione latches onto her words so as not to come adrift. “From what I am seeing, the bonding has been expertly administered.”

 

“Oh good,” Hermione mutters, “At least my molester wasn’t sloppy with his work.”

 

She thinks she hears a pained grunt to her left, but when she turns to look at Snape the man’s face is completely stoic, so she figures she must have imagined it.

 

Eloise inspects the area for a few moments more, then draws her wand and taps lightly at the base. “I am detecting a number of cleansing spells attached to the device. One would presume that those are there to keep the item sanitary, and also dispense of any waste your body produces.” She emerges from between Hermione’s legs, folding the sheets down to cover her body before removing her gloves with a snap. “If you experience any soreness around the area, I recommend antiseptic salve. Otherwise I don’t see any particular cause for concern.”

 

“Apart from the giant plastic snake stuck up my twat, you mean?” Hermione doesn’t quite know what’s come over her. She would never, _never_ presume to talk to a figure of authority like this. It’s like somebody else has taken over her tongue to save her from having to work out how to respond in such a surreal situation. She winces, blood flushing her cheeks in embarrassment over her poor behaviour. “I’m so sorry, that was completely uncalled for.”

 

Eloise’s mouth twists into a sympathetic smile. “You have endured something no person should ever have to endure, Hermione. You have every right to be upset.”

 

“I’m not upset,” Hermione tries to argue, even as tears start to slip down her cheeks. “I’m angry. I’m so, so angry.”

 

“Then be angry,” the healer says softly. “Be whatever you need to be to get through this.”

 

“And if i want to cast Fiendfyre on everyone who touched me that night?” Hermione asks, only half joking.

 

“As a healer I would be obligated to urge you to do no harm,” Eloise says, “But as a fellow witch, I would say that Fiendfyre is too good for those bastards.”

 

Hermione barks out a rough laugh, the emotion sharp and brittle in her chest. It doesn’t feel good, necessarily, but it feels a hell of a lot better than tears.

 

There’s a moment of silence before Eloise gives an almost reluctant sigh. “I’m going to need to examine your rectal area now, if you are willing?”

 

Hermione’s mouth twists into a grimace. “I suppose there’s no alternative?”

 

“None that would allow me to leave you to your recovery in good conscience, I’m afraid.”

 

Hermione sighs, gathering together every scrap of her remaining courage. “Okay...Okay. I’m ready.”

 

Eloise has her lie on her side, with her knees brought up to her chest. Her movements are light and professional as she inspects Hermione’s posterior, but with the very first touch Hermione is thrown harshly back to the events of the night before.

 

_“Fuck, look how wrung out she is,” an anonymous Death Eater laughs as he roughly shoves three fingers inside of her gaping hole, curling the digits so that they catch on her battered rim. “You wouldn’t believe she was a virgin before we had her, would you?”_

 

_“Like fuck she was,” another man sneers, hand coming down to grope harsly at one of her breasts, “I bet she’s been buggered by every boy in Hogwarts. Sluts like these are always gagging for it.”_

 

_“Are you a slut, little girl?” the first Death Eater asks, shoving his fingers deeper inside of her and making her wail pitifully. “What was that? I can’t hear you.”_

 

_“Yes! I’m a slut,” Hermione cries out, tears slipping down her cheeks as the Imperius charm forces the words past her lips. “I’m a slut and a filthy whore!”_

 

_“And who’s filthy whore are you?”_

 

_“Yours! I’m your filthy whore.”_

 

_“That’s right. And don’t you ever forget it.”_

 

“Hermione? Hermione can you hear me?” Hermione is jolted back into the present by Eloise’s urgent tone, sobs violently wracking her frame as she tries and fails to draw breath. She hiccoughs and gasps, but it’s like there’s a vise around her chest and she _can’t breathe_.

 

“Breathe with me, Miss Granger,” Snapes low, sonorous voice cuts through her mounting hysteria. “In... And out... In… And out.”

 

It takes a while for Hermione to even understand the words being spoken, and even longer for her to be able to follow along with his his commands. Her breathing hitches and stutters, and more than once she dissolves into yet another round of bone-wracking sobs, but Snape merely continues his steady chant, allowing her to pick it back up again whenever she’s ready.

 

At long last her breathing evens out enough for her to be able to think clearly, but the absence of fear merely allows utter mortification to take its place.

 

“Oh Merlin, I’m sorry,” she practically whispers, her voice shuddering with yet more unshed tears. “I don’t know what came over me.”

 

“Don’t you _ever_ apologise to me, Miss Granger.” Snape’s voice is deep, and quiet, and deathly angry, but somehow Hermione knows that the anger is not aimed at her, which makes her feel better than it probably should.

 

“I’m all done, I promise.” Eloise’s quiet voice interrupts the silence. “There are a couple of tears that I believe would benefit from stitches-”

 

“No. Oh please. Please no.” Hermione doesn’t even care how pathetic she sounds. She can’t be touched there any more, she just _can’t_.

 

“But given the circumstances,” the healer continues firmly. “I will not object if you opt for a course of strong healing potions instead.”

 

“I will brew them myself. They will be more than sufficient.” Snape says, piercing stare still fixed firmly on Hermione’s face.

 

“In that case I will leave you with a copy of my report,” Eloise says, standing with a soft grunt. “My personal floo is at the bottom of the parchment. If you need anything - at any hour - I want your word that you will contact me.”

 

“I...I couldn’t possibly inconvenience you like that,” Hermione stammers quietly, determinedly not making eye contact with the healer as she slowly shuffles back up to sitting.

 

“Nonsense,” Eloise says. “I gave you my word, and now I shall have yours, if you please.”

 

“You- you have it.” It’s a struggle for Hermione to speak the words, but she knows the healer won’t leave without them. “I promise I will contact you if I need to.”

 

The healer’s expression softens at Hermione’s whispered confession, and she conjures up another sheet of inscribed parchment. “I have no doubt that Master Snape will oversee your physical recovery admirably, but I caution you not to ignore your mental recovery. When you are ready, I can put you in contact with a number of mind-healers who have my personal recommendation, but I understand that may not be something you are ready to undertake just yet.” Hermione’s eyes widen in horror, and the healer nods sadly in understanding. “In the meantime, this is a list of books I have found to be very helpful with patients who have undergone similar...experiences to yours in the past. I do hope you will try at least one of them.”

 

Hermione reaches out with trembling fingers to accept the offered parchment, eyes running hesitantly over the titles listed on the page. Individual words jump out at her - _PTSD. Trauma. Rape Recovery_ \- and she blanches and swiftly folds the piece of paper in half.

 

“Thank you, for everything,” she says, determinedly focusing on the healer in front of her rather than the parchment in her hands.

 

“Good luck Miss Granger,” the other witch says a little sadly. “Merlin protect you and all those who fight for the light.”

 

There’s a beat of awkward silence as Hermione fails to think of an appropriate response, but Eloise is already turning her attention towards Snape.

 

“And now, Master Snape, I shall have a look at that arm, if you please?”

 

“You’re hurt?” Hermione exclaims, frowning over at her ex-professor. Now that she’s looking more closely, she can see that his right arm is stiff and inflexible at his side. “Why didn’t you say something?”

 

“It is inconsequential,” Snape says brusquely, motioning with his left hand towards the door. “We greatly appreciate your assistance, Healer Dresden. Shall I apparate you home?”

 

The healer frowns, and opens her mouth to argue, but Hermione beats her to it. “Professor. That is your wand arm.”

 

“And I told you, it is nothing.” Snape bites out, determinedly looking at a spot above Hermione’s head. “I am more than capable of healing myself.”

 

“Then why haven’t you already?”

  
There’s a pause, where Hermione briefly wonders if Snape is going to continue denying that his arm requires treatment. His mouth open and closes a few times, but no words emerge, and Hermione swiftly presses her advantage.

 

“If I have to be poked and prodded by Eloise - no offense - then so do you.”

 

Eloise smiles wryly. “None taken. Now, Master Snape, lets get that arm seen to shall we?”

 

Snape’s face darkens into a truly impressive scowl, but he obediently holds his arm out to the healer. Eloise performs a couple of quick diagnostics, then fixes him up with an equally quick _Episkey_.

 

“You must look after yourself,” the healer scolds as she moves Snape’s arm in wide circles to confirm his range of movement. “Or you’ll be no good to anyone.”

 

It’s exactly the wrong thing to say, and Hermione can practically see Snape’s eyes shutter in pain, but his voice is perfectly polite as he responds. “As I said, we appreciate your assistance. Now I really must insist on apparating you home.”

 

Snape escorts the healer outside, giving Hermione precious moments to compose her. By the time he returns she almost feels like she has it together.

 

Awkward silence envelops the room as the two of them stare at one another, unsure quite where to go from here. Eventually Snape gives a small huff and opens his mouth to speak.

 

“I-” he begins, but as soon as he starts Hermione knows she’s not ready to hear whatever it is he’s about to say.

 

“Please, don’t,” she quickly interrupts. “Whatever it is, just...don’t. Not yet.”

 

Snape’s mouth snaps closed, and something flickers across his face, too quick for Hermione to decipher. He nods rigidly, clasping his hands behind his back in a manner that is so reminiscent of Hogwarts it makes Hermione’s heart ache.

 

“We must be departing,” he says sharply, all trace of emotion absent from his tone. “The Order will surely have grown anxious as to your whereabouts.” He holds out his hand, and for a brief moment Hermione wonders if he intends for her to take it before he gestures at the parchment still clenched tightly in her hands. “I shall make a trip to Diagon Alley after I have escorted you back to Grimmauld Place to purchase Healer Dresden’s recommended literature.”

 

Hermione looks down at the folded list, gut churning uncomfortably. Reading has always been her solace, her refuge. When nothing in the world makes sense, she turns to the written word to help her understand. She should be clamouring to get her hands on the books on this list, to uncover the secrets to her recovery that right now feel so painfully out of her reach.

 

And yet. And yet.

 

What if they don’t help? What if she reads them all - cover to cover - and she still feels this dreadful ache inside of her? What if she really is so broken that even _books_ can’t help her any more? Voldemort and his followers have taken so much from her already, she can’t quite bear the thought of them taking her faith in literature as well.

 

She folds the paper in quarters, and then again into eighths, until its a tiny square no bigger than her palm. “No, thank you. I’ll pick them up myself.”

 

Snape frowns at her, but withdraws his proffered hand. “As you wish.”

 

Hermione nods firmly, brutally stomping down the fear that has started to surge inside her chest at the idea of returning to the Order. Of having to explain to them where she’s been, and what happened to her in her absence.

 

She won’t tell them the full story, of course. As far as the Order need be concerned she was beaten and _crucio-ed_ and strictly nothing else. That should be more than enough for them to stomach, she thinks. They certainly don’t need to know...the rest. Not when it will surely impact her value to the Order. She’s already lost so much, she can’t lose that too.

 

“Okay,” she says with a conviction she most definitely doesn’t feel. “Let’s get this over with, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

Their arrival back at Grimmauld Place is about as awful as Hermione expects it to be.

 

They’ve barely walked through the door before they’re completely surrounded, a cacophony of voices all clamouring to be heard above one another as everyone declares their relief at them having returned. Hands reach out to hug her, grab her, there are so many people _touching_ her that it takes every ounce of her willpower not to up and apparate to the most remote corner of Scotland she can find.

 

A stern cough from Snape does what her visible flinching does not, and suddenly she can breathe again, the room having collectively taken a contrite step backwards.

 

“Sorry ‘mione.” Harry is the first one to speak, hand coming up to scratch at his neck like he always does when he’s embarrassed. “Didn’t mean to rush you like that.”

 

“It’s okay,” Hermione replies, shocking even herself at how timid her voice sounds. She can’t bring herself to meet any of their gazes, so instead she keeps her eyes fixed on the floor. She never realised how worn the floorboards were this close to the door.

 

“We were just so worried about you, when we got back and found you missing. We did everything we could to find you, everything.”

 

She doesn’t know what he wants her to say, so she doesn’t say anything. There’s a long pause, and then Molly approaches her again, hands a flurry of well-meaning activity as she shepherds her into the kitchen.

 

“Come now, I’ve got a pot of tea on, and some crumpets. I can whip up something more substantial if you’d like it dear, just say the word.”

 

“No, thank you,” Hermione whispers as she allows herself to be guided into the kitchen, body feeling like it’s moving on autopilot.

 

She sits down at her usual place at the table, ignoring the sick feeling that churns in her stomach as the _thing_ that’s still between her legs jostles against the chair’s hard surface. There’s a book on the table in front of her, and she recognises it as the one she’d been reading before…before.

 

It feels like an eternity ago, like the book belongs to a completely different person.

 

“You have no idea how glad we are that you’re okay,” Ron says, voice overly loud as he plops himself down into the chair next to her. Hermione can’t help the flinch that runs through her body at his sudden presence, and hates herself a little for causing Ron’s crestfallen response.

 

“Mr. Weasley, if you cannot conduct yourself with any sort of decorum you had best excuse yourself from this room.” Snape’s cold voice floats down from the other end of the table, and Ron’s face swiftly goes from heartbroken to irate. He begins to round on Snape, but Hermione steels herself and places her hand on his shoulder to forestall the impending explosion.  

 

“It’s okay,” she says, hoping she sounds adequately sincere. “You just surprised me a little, is all.”

 

Ron looks appropriately abased, and allows Hermione to direct his attention away from Snape. “Are...are you really okay?” he asks tentatively.

 

Hermione opens her mouth, then closes it again when she realises she has no idea how to respond. She had fully intended on brushing off the whole ordeal, on convincing the rest of the Order that there was no reason for concern. For some reason though, she can’t make the words come, not when they’re so obviously a lie.

 

“I’m home now,” she finally settles on, and that seems to be good enough as the room visibly relaxes around her.

 

“What did You-Know-Who want with you anyway?” Fred asks, earning himself a disapproving glare from both Snape and Molly.

 

“Information,” Hermione says, reaching out to pick up the steaming mug of tea that’s been placed down in front of her just to give her hands something to do. “He wanted to know what the Order was planning, and when he couldn’t find anything in my head he-” she pauses, wondering how best to word this without causing everyone unnecessary upset, “he used me as incentive to try and get Professor Snape to talk.”

 

Every head in the room whips towards Snape, who’s eyes darken in response.

 

“Did you-” Harry starts hesitantly, like he’s not sure which answer he wants to hear.

 

“No.” Snape says, the single clipped syllable making it abundantly clear he’s not prepared to elaborate further.

 

“So what? You just let them _torture_ her?” Ron exclaims, sounding furious.

 

“He did the right thing.” Hermione interrupts quickly. She directs her words at Ron, but her gaze is on Snape as she speaks. She knows she’ll never have the courage to be able to say this to him directly, which means this is her one and only chance. “He protected the Order, just like he needed to.”

 

“But Hermione-”

 

“No, Ron.” Hermione sets her jaw determinedly against Ron’s protestations. “You know it’s true. One person isn’t worth the lives of everyone in this room, and everyone else who’s part of the Order. If I have to take a _Crucio_ or two to protect what we’re fighting for here, then so be it.”

 

“Is that what he did?” Harry asks, sounding queasy at the thought. “He _Crucio-ed_ you?”

 

_If only that were all he did,_ Hermione thinks bitterly to herself even as she nods silently. This is what she wanted, she reminds herself. Her dirty secret kept secret.

 

An anguished sob bursts out of Molly, who hastily clasps her hand over her mouth.

 

“Mum!” Fred and George both exclaim at the same time.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Molly apologises wetly. “Just the thought of you having to go through all that, oh my poor dear.”

 

“It’s okay,” Hermione says yet again, feeling very much like a broken record. It’s not okay, nothing about this entire situation is okay, but what else can she say?

 

There’s another strained pause, before eventually McGonagall gives a heavy sigh. “We always knew the day might come where You-Know-Who discovered your true loyalties, Severus. I’m just sorry it had to happen like this.”

 

Snape bows his head in mute acquiescence, his eyes still not leaving Hermione’s at the other end of the room. She doesn’t know whether he’s accepted her words or not, but she’s glad they’ve been said nonetheless.

 

“I don’t get it though,” Ron says slowly, like he’s trying to fit together puzzle pieces that don’t quite match. “Why would You-Know-Who think that torturing you would get _him_ to talk? It’s not like you two are the best of pals or anything.”

 

Hermione thinks back to early mornings filled with tea and cautious book exchanges, how excited she had been at the thought that they might be developing, perhaps not friendship but at the very least an understanding of mutual respect.

 

How foolish that excitement feels now, how inconsequential.

 

“I think they were just opportunistic,” she admits. “I was on my own, I wasn’t keeping an eye on my surroundings. I made it easy for them, really.”

 

There’s a general outcry at her words where everyone rushes to reassure her that she’s in no way responsible for her own kidnapping. Hermione simply shrugs her shoulders. “I doubt it matters either way. They probably were instructed to grab the first person who left the house.” She pauses, tilting her head to the side as she considers their tactics. “Or maybe just the first witch. I think they were hoping to play on the stereotype of the alpha wizard needing to protect the damsel in distress.”

 

Snape’s expression shutters at her words, aware in a way nobody else is of quite why Hermione has reached that conclusion. Thankfully Hermione is the only one who sees it, as everyone else is too busy focussing on her.

 

“Probably a good thing that Ginny is visiting Charlie,” she adds, earning another distressed sob from Molly. Something dark and bitter uncurls inside of her at the realisation that that she’s made nice, kind, _loving_ Molly Weasley feel relief - for even half a heartbeat - that it was Hermione that was taken and not her own daughter.

 

All of a sudden it’s all too much for her. She stands up abruptly, pushing her chair back with a harsh scrape. “I think I’m going to have a lie down,” she says to nobody in particular. “Thank you for the tea, Molly. Please excuse me.”

 

She walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

 

* * *

 

That night she sleeps in fits and starts, the utter exhaustion brought on by her body trying to heal itself at odds with the constant unease her brain can’t seem to shake. When she does finally fall asleep she’s plagued with fragmented nightmares, memories of her ordeal twisted and warped through the lens of unconsciousness until she jerks awake in a cold sweat, heart pounding erratically and senses on high alert.

 

Early morning light is just starting to stream in through the curtains when she hears soft rustling outside her door. Immediately her whole body tenses, the rational part of her brain that insists she’s safe within the walls of Grimmauld Place drowned out by pure, animalistic panic.

 

She hastily grabs her wand off her bedside table, slipping out of bed as she points the tip of her wand firmly at the door.

 

Silence envelops her, and for a moment she wonders if she might have imagined the noise. She’s just about to climb back into bed when she hears another sound, this time like tinkling glass.

 

She surges towards the door - she won’t get caught off guard again, she _won’t -_ and throws it open with a bang, uncaring of the early hour.

 

The hallway is completely empty, save for a small wooden crate sitting at her feet.

 

Taking a steadying breath she crouches down to inspect the crate, wand still held defensively in front of her. The box holds about fifteen vials, all containing liquid in a variety of colours. With shaking hands she picks up one of the vials, recognizing Snape’s spidery handwriting on the label. It’s marked as a healing draught, and when she pops the cap with her thumb the immediate smell of Arnica identifies it as a potent one. Other bottles are marked sequentially, denoting the courses she’ll need take to combat her various infections, as well as a number of high strength pain potions.

 

Snape must have been up brewing all night, she realises, to have all of these ready for her now.

 

She scans the length of the corridor, just in time to see a flash of black robes disappear around the corner. She debates calling out to him, but quickly decides against it. He clearly doesn’t want to be around her right now, or he would have given her these in person. She can respect that, she guesses. She doesn’t want to be around her very much right now either.

 

She stands back up with a soft grunt, her body protesting even that small movement in its current state. With a flick of her wand she levitates the crate into her room, depositing it on the desk in the corner, then uses _Accio_ to retrieve one of the pain potions. She sips about half of the vial, practically moaning in pleasure at the sudden lightness that spreads through her muscles.

 

Snape had decided to brew the _really_ good stuff, apparently.

 

A quick _Tempus_ marks it as just past seven, so Hermione decides to call sleep a lost cause and makes her way through to her ensuite. She’s barely even reached the sink before her mirror starts to wail.

 

“Oh my dear, just look at you,” the enchanted device exclaims in distress, “You look like you’ve been in the wars, make no mistake.”

 

“Astute observation,” Hermione mutters, eyes focussed on anything but her reflection as she grabs her toothbrush off the side.

 

“Not to worry, a little foundation will cover up those bruises like they were never even there,” the mirror continues, probably trying to be helpful. “My last mistress would mix a little ground dittany into her powder, she swore by that she did.”

 

Hermione growls and points her wand at the mirror, determinedly keeping her eyes on the gilded gold edge and not her battered face in the middle. “You be quiet, or I will take the seven years bad luck and shatter you into a thousand tiny pieces,” she hisses from behind clenched teeth.

 

“You wouldn’t!” the mirror gasps in horror.

 

“Watch me,” Hermione counters, then pauses and casts a blurring charm on the reflective surface for good measure.

 

She brushes her teeth and washes her face without any further interruptions from well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful inanimate objects. Her hair is a mess but that’s usually the case, so she settles for a few rough detangling spells before leaving it to its own bushy devices. Going through her usual morning routine grounds her in a way she hadn’t expected, and by the time she’s completed her sink-based activities she’s feeling more like herself than she has in a long while.

 

She sits down on the toilet almost on autopilot, but the cool plastic of the seat reminds her of something else entirely, and she tenses with a whimper.

 

Healer Dresden had said that the device inside of her would keep itself sanitary, but her bladder is pulsing insistently, just like normal, and Hermione has no idea what to do. Is she really expected to pee with this thing still inside of her? Will it even work, or will she turn into some sort of urinary sprinkler system, because everything she’s endured so far hasn’t been degrading enough, apparently?

 

Her breath starts to catch in her throat as she suddenly feels so completely overwhelmed, and she buries her face in her hands with a harsh moan. How on earth is she supposed to move past everything that happened when parts of it are still happening?

 

Three distraught sobs manage to escape her before she gets herself back under control, digging her fingernails into her palm until she draws blood. “Okay, okay. You can do this,” she mutters to herself as she straightens back up again, scrunching her eyes closed like not being able to see the room will help with what she has to do next.

 

She’s fastidiously avoided thinking too hard about the snake until now, deciding that denial sometimes really is the best course of action. That ship seems to have well and truly sailed though, which means there's nothing else for it; she needs to find out what she's dealing with.

 

Holding her breath she slips her hand down between her legs. Her fingers brush up against cool plastic, and she has to stomp down the violent urge to immediately withdraw. Exhaling heavily through her nose, she walks her fingers around the edges of the toy, forcing herself to acknowledge for the first time exactly how it's attached to her.

 

The flared base isn't circular as she'd originally assumed, but long and thin so that it stretches lengthways between her legs. The rear tapers to a point just in front of her perineum, but the front spreads wider, curving to cover her labia and clitorus. Her entire anatomy is completely enclosed, blocked off by a wall of impenetrable silicone.

 

She whimpers, finally allowing herself to reclaim her hand. She's still no closer to understanding exactly how she's supposed to execute bodily functions while still maintaining any semblance of dignity, but the ache in her bladder is getting increasingly more insistent, and she has a horrible feeling she's just going to have to endure whatever the toy has in store for her.

 

“You can do this,” she repeats firmly to herself as she slowly relaxes her lower muscles. The unmistakable sensation of urinating takes over, but there’s no sound in the bowl underneath her, no liquid escaping her body at all. Eventually Hermione is forced to conclude that the base of the toy is actually catching and disposing of her waste as it leaves her, and she has absolutely no idea how to process _that_ development.

 

For a long while she simply sits there, her brain having shut down for anything more than the most basic functions. Because really, where does one go when they find out that the animated dildo that has been forcibly inserted inside of them and permanently fused to their skin also doubles as some sort of pseudo-catheter?

 

She has to hand it to Voldemort, that fucker really does think of everything.

 

After that, the idea of leaving her bedroom seems a completely insurmountable challenge, and she drags herself back to bed and draws the duvet firmly over her head, blocking out the world at large. Today is simply not a day she is willing to deal with, she’s decided. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after that.

 

There’s a knock on her door some hours later, which she firmly ignores. The intruder only tries to get her attention for a couple of minutes before giving up and leaving, for which Hermione would be grateful for if she was in any state to be aware of her surroundings. Whoever is sent that evening to try and get her to join them for dinner is far more persistent, though, and Hermione has to endure almost a full fifteen minutes of muffled pleading from the other side of her magically locked door before she is left to her own devices again. Her stomach growls in protest, but Hermione doesn’t really care. Besides, if she’s focussing on the churning of her stomach she can ignore the throbbing between her legs.

 

She doesn’t know what time sleep takes her, but her nightmares are just as bad second time around.

 

* * *

 

Her stomach finally wins the war against her brain in the small hours of the morning, when the general rumblings of hunger develop into full on cramps. The house is dark and silent, the light from the moon obscured by a thick layer of clouds, and Hermione feels like some sort of wraith as she slips out of her room and makes her way down to the kitchen.

 

She draws up short when she reaches her destination. There’s a soft light emanating from beneath the door, suggesting the room is already occupied, and the thought of having to interact with anyone else has her very nearly fleeing back to her room. Her stomach gives an unhappy whine at the idea of going any longer without food though, so with a soft sigh she pushes the door open and steps inside.

 

Snape is sitting at the far end of the table, a faraway expression on his features. At the sound of the door opening his gaze snaps towards her, and his mouth purses.

 

“I- sorry to disturb you. I was just going to grab some food.” Hermione feels the need to explain as she hovers awkwardly by the door, unsure if she’s welcome.

 

Snape continues to stare at her for a long moment, then places his hands on the table in front of him and makes to push himself up to standing. “I will leave.”

 

“No!” Hermione doesn’t know why she’s protesting, since less than a minute ago the idea of having to interact with other people very nearly had her turning tail. “You don’t have to go. Please, stay.”

 

Snape’s lips press together harder, until they’re practically invisible, but he gives a sharp nod and relaxes back in his chair. “As you wish.”

 

Hermione nods just as sharply back, skirting around the edges of the room to approach the counter on the far side. She grabs two slices of bread from the bread bag and slips them into the toaster, then fills the kettle and gets to work making tea while the bread is toasting.

 

It’s only when the toast pops with a snap that she realises she’s been making tea for two.

 

She stares down at the two mugs; one Darjeeling, one English Breakfast. Just like always. Just like before. She sneaks a surreptitious look over her shoulder and notices that Snape doesn’t have already have a drink. In fact, he doesn’t have anything in front of him, he’s just staring absently into the distance.

 

It unnerves her to see her ex-professor looking so bereft, so with a huff she continues to make both mugs of tea just like she’s done dozens of times in the past. She doesn’t have enough hands to carry both teas and her toast back to the table, so she leviates the plate and carries the two mugs, placing Snape’s down in front of him with a soft thunk.

 

He looks up at her in surprise, brow furrowing as he takes in both her presence and the steaming drink she’s offering him. Hermione simply shrugs, determined not to overthink her actions as she moves down the other end of the table and takes up her usual place.

 

There’s a long pause where Hermione munches on her toast and pointedly doesn’t make eye contact with her ex-professor. Finally, after what feels like an age, she catches motion out of the corner of her eye. Snape very slowly lifts the mug to his lips, blows on the surface, then takes a long sip.

 

His oh-so familiar hum of appreciation feels like a victory, but Hermione isn’t entirely sure what she’s supposed to have won.

 

* * *

 

The next day Hermione resolves to make an appearance downstairs. She knows she worried the rest of the house with her reclusiveness yesterday, and the last thing she wants to do is to give them cause for concern.

 

Snape's healing potions have worked wonders - not that she should really be surprised about that - but there’s still a faint yellow tinge around her eyes and jaw from bruises that haven’t completely healed yet, so with a resigned sigh she takes her blasted mirror’s advice and cakes on the foundation before heading downstairs. She hopes nobody chooses to comment on why she’s decided today is a makeup day of all days.

 

The general hubbub of the house seems almost deafening to Hermione’s ears after the quiet of her early morning kitchen excursion, but she forces herself to smile at Molly when the older witch asks how she’s doing, and even forces down a couple of eggs and a few rashers of bacon for breakfast along with the rest of the Order. For the most part she lets the conversation flow around her, willing her body not to flinch at every loud noise and raised voice.

 

Ron and Harry are following up on a lead this morning, apparating to the Outer Hebrides to talk with a herd of Centaurs. They ask Hermione if she’d like to join them, but the idea of stepping outside leaves Hermione with such a violent feeling of unease she’s declining the offer before her brain has even fully processed what they’re asking. She can tell that Harry is surprised by her vehement response, so she steels herself to reach out and pat his hand gently.

 

“I just have a lot of reading to catch up on. Next time, I promise,” she says, plastering a smile on her face that she hopes isn’t too obviously fake. Harry gives her a soft smile in response, but the heaviness behind his eyes suggests he doesn’t completely buy her story.

 

She needs to up her game, clearly.

 

She spends the rest of the day holed up in the house’s library, curled up in a big armchair with the most complicated, brain melting reads she can find. She practically inhales the content, overloading her brain until sharp spikes of pain radiate out from behind her eyes.

 

She has to, because every time she stops other, nastier thoughts start to wheedle their way in. Malfoy’s taunts sidle in next to arithmantic theorems, Voldemort’s awful laugh superimposing itself over complex charms. If her brain isn’t full to bursting she has space to remember the awful pain of being violated, the throbbing between her legs that is still there even now. She can’t let those thoughts drag her under, so she drowns herself in academia instead.  

 

Ron and Harry aren’t back in time for dinner which makes it a quieter affair than usual - for which Hermione is silently grateful - and the the household disbands for bed shortly after ten. She crawls into bed wrapped in the kind of mental exhaustion that promises at least twelve hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep.

 

She’s granted less than four before the nightmares shake her abruptly back into wakefulness.

 

She jerks up in bed with a half aborted scream on her lips, thankful for the _Muffilato_ she cast on the room before going to bed. Her heart is pounding a mile a minute, and her skin is clammy with sweat. She can’t even remember what she was dreaming about - flashes of light and sound the only things remaining as the last vestiges of sleep leave her body - only that it was bad.

 

Her body cries out in protest as she slips out of bed and throws on a nightgown. She’s gotten far too little sleep in far too many days to be awake at this ungodly hour, but she can’t go back to bed and face whatever it is that’s waiting for her there. She just can’t.

 

For some reason she’s not at all surprised to find Snape already in the kitchen when she arrives, staring vacantly into the distance just like the previous day. This time no words are exchanged as Hermione crosses the room to make a start on tea, brewing for the pair of them like there’s no other way to make a cup of tea any more. She places Snape’s mug down in front of him with a gentle click, and the pair of them sit in silence nursing their drinks until the first rays of sunlight break across the heavy wood table.  

 

* * *

 

Almost a week later Hermione is about ready to drop from exhaustion. She’s averaging about three hours sleep a night, and even with the wideye potions that have somehow found their way into her crate of medicines, she’s barely holding it together. The bruises on her face have long since faded, but now she’s relying on makeup to hide the dark circles that are steadily growing underneath her eyes.

 

She never thought she would live to see the day where she’s actually grateful that Lavender insisted on teaching her how to “Prime, Prep and Set”, but desperate times call for desperate measures she supposes.

 

She’s barely holding back tears as once more she traipses dejectedly down to the kitchen at arse-o’clock in the morning. She honestly doesn’t remember what it feels like to not be tired anymore. Snape’s presence in the kitchen has long stopped being a novelty, but the steaming cup of tea sitting at her regular spot is new. She thought they had it under tacit agreement that she would be the one who makes the tea. She wonders what has changed.

 

She sits down and cautiously picks up the mug. The contents are still warm, but she can’t detect any sort of stasis charm on the substance, which means it really has only just been brewed. She raises an eyebrow at Snape, who pretends not to notice her, and takes a small sip. It’s made perfectly, exactly the way she would do it herself. She doesn’t know why she expected anything less from a Potions Master, really.

 

They sit in silence with their tea for about an hour, the soothing warmth of the drink and the quiet sounds of the house almost lulling Hermione into unconsciousness. She’s just wondering whether she wants to risk trying to sleep again tonight when movement at the other end of the table brings her attention back to her companion.

 

Snape rummages in a pocket of his robes, and draws out a small paperback book. Hermione’s heart jumps into her throat at the idea that they might be picking up where they left off. Yes, she thinks excitedly as Snape carefully places the book down on the table and aligns its edges, this is exactly what she needs to get herself back on track, for things around her to start returning to normal.

 

She barely manages to restrain herself from diving across the table to grab the book Snape is offering, keeping her hands firmly in her lap as he slowly pushes the text across the table. Only once he’s withdrawn his own hands does she reach out to pick up the book, eagerly wondering which branch of morally questionable magic he’s chosen for her this time.

 

The title of the book - _Trauma and Recovery_ \- makes bile instantly rise in the back of her throat.

 

“What is this?” she asks quietly, dropping the book onto the table with a loud thud.

 

“I noticed you have yet to leave Grimmauld Place, and as such would not have been able to procure the texts Healer Dresden recommended for you.” Snape’s voice is cool and calm, a sharp counterpoint to Hermione’s racing heart.

 

“You’ve been checking up on me?” she asks, even though she knows it’s an unreasonable accusation. The whole house knows she’s been firmly ensconced in the library all day every day this past week.

 

“I merely thought to assist if you were unable-”

 

“I’m not unable!” Hermione’s sharp voice cuts through the quiet of the night like a red hot poker, the words sizzling in their wake. She can barely think over the frantic energy that has started pulsing through her body. She was going to get the books on her list, she _was._ She certainly hasn’t been avoiding it, even though that seems to be what Snape is implying. There have just been so many other things she needs to read, so many other books that are altogether more important to the war effort.

 

She was going to get around to it eventually, of course she was. But she needs to be smart about it. Subtle. Not like this.

 

She pushes the book sharply back across the table, withdrawing her hand immediately like the book is physically painful to touch. “Get rid of it. What if somebody in the house sees it? What would they think!”

 

Snape frowns. “They would think that you have gone through a considerably traumatic experience, and understand that there is no shame in seeking help.”

 

“Have you read it?” Hermione asks, anger and fear making her voice caustic.

 

His frown deepens, mouth twisting like she has said something particularly distasteful. “I did not endure what you did.”

 

“No, but you also went through a _considerably traumatic experience_ ,” Hermione spits his own words back at him, the words cruel and dismissive on her lips even though the sentiment is genuine.

 

“It is hardly the same.”

 

“As far as the rest of the house is concerned it is _exactly_ the same. They can’t know what else happened that night, and me flaunting that book around-” she waves frantically at the table “-will only make them suspicious.”

 

“Miss Granger,” Snape’s voice tips into the disappointed snarl Hermione remembers all too well from her days at Hogwarts. “If you insist on continuing this foolish charade then I shall not intervene, but that does not mean that I am content to sit by and do nothing while you willfully disregard-”

 

“How dare you?!” she seethes, her mug exploding into a thousand tiny shards in front of her as her rage manifests in accidental magic for the first time in years. “I happen to think that I am handling things perfectly well, given the circumstances, and I certainly don’t need you trying to force me into something I’m not ready for. If you want to help so much why didn’t you say something when I actually needed you to?”

 

It’s a low blow, far too low, and Hermione regrets the words as soon as they escape her mouth. She doesn’t mean them, not even a little bit. But that dark, cold part inside of her that is still so angry at what was done to her has reared its ugly head, and has apparently decided it wants everyone to hurt as much as she does.

 

She watches in horror as Snape’s expression shutters, the older man literally drawing his robes tighter around himself in response to her vicious barbs. He opens his mouth to reply, but she cuts him off with a sharp gasp

 

“I….I have to go” she whispers, wholly unprepared to hear whatever response he has to her awful, hateful words. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and she can’t quite prevent the sob from escaping her lips before she turns and flees the room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your great comments on the last chapter! There were some really interesting questions and more than one of you pointed out a biological faux-pas I'd made, which I really appreciate. Let me know what you think of this chapter!

Snape isn’t at breakfast the next day, and while that’s far from unusual - generally speaking the man tries to spend as little time as possible in the company of others - Hermione can’t help but worry that his absence is due to her outburst the night before.

She’d spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, her insides churning with guilt as she replayed her vicious comment over and over in her head, and in the cold light of day her words somehow seem worse, not better.

She munches dejectedly on a slice of toast, shoulders hunched slightly as the kitchen bustles around her. She knows she should go and apologise, but she doesn’t know what to say. Even though she's fully aware that her response had been completely out of line, a small part of her can’t help but think that he hadn’t been much better, trying to foist that book on her. She’ll seek out that sort of literature when she’s good and ready, and trying to read it before then will do more harm than help, she’s sure of it.

“You okay ‘mione?” Ron shakes her from her internal musings. “You’re looking a bit down this morning.”

She quickly plasters on a smile as she turns to face her friend. “Yeah, I’m alright,” she says in a tone that she hopes is reassuring. “I don’t think I slept very well last night.”

_ Or at all _ , she amends silently as Ron’s brow furrows in concern.

“You know I’m here if you want to talk, right?” Ron’s cheeks flush scarlet he talks, but he sounds so painfully sincere that it makes Hermione’s heart hurt. “What happened to you, that’d be rough on anyone.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Hermione says, only hesitating for a moment before placing her hand softly on top of his on the table. “That means a lot to me, really.” 

Not that she’ll ever,  _ ever _ tell Ron what really happened that night, but it’s nice to know he cares.

Ron’s concerned expression holds for a beat longer, like he can tell Hermione isn’t being completely truthful with him. “You’re doing okay? Really?”

“Really,” Hermione replies with as much sincerity as she can manage. She’s sure the whole room can hear the lie colouring her words, but thankfully it seems to be enough for Ron. His face breaks out into a wide grin, and he flips his hand over so that he can squeeze Hermione’s gently.

“Mum says you’ve been spending a lot of time in the house library,” he says, “Have you found anything interesting?”

 

Crikey, he must really be concerned about her if he’s willing to talk books.

Still, she’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth; it’s so rare that the boys are interested in her research. “Actually,” she says with what feels like the first enthusiasm she’s been able to muster in quite a while, “I’ve found some evidence to suggest-”

She cuts off with a pained grunt as the snake between her legs suddenly surges to life, vibrating so violently that she has to hastily grip the table to keep her body from folding in on itself.

“Hermione?” Ron’s concerned voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away as the room expands and contracts around her, her own breathing loud in her ears and her fingers white-knuckled against the tabletop. The toy inside of her pulses and churns, pressing up against her inside walls in a way that’s completely foreign, yet awfully familiar.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Ron repeats, but Hermione ignores him as she lurches out of her chair.

“I’m just...I’ll be right back,” she pants, the floor feeling decidedly unstable underneath her as she stumbles out of the room, grasping at the door frame for balance as she passes.

Her bedroom is at the far end of the house, so Hermione rushes for the nearest bathroom instead, which is still a full flight of stairs away. By the time she flings herself into the room and slams the door behind her, her whole body is shuddering under the effects of the toy’s ministrations.

“No, no no  _ no _ ,” she pleads as she sinks to her knees, uncaring of the hard stone underneath her. This can’t be happening. She thought her ordeal was  _ over _ .

The toy adjusts its movements inside of her, and all of a sudden it’s pressing up against that spot inside of her that makes her core ache. Pressing and pressing and making sparks fly along her spine.

“Oh, god. Please, no,” Hermione gasps, hands scrambling ineffectively for purchase against the smooth floor as she tries to stave off her body’s base urges. She doesn’t want this, she doesn’t want to-

Her orgasm is almost painful as it rips out of her, despite everything inside of her screaming not to let it happen. Her whole body tenses, a silent scream on her lips as her climax crests, then dissipates, and she collapses bonelessly on the floor.

The toy is finally, mercifully still inside of her once more.

She doesn’t know how long she lies there, cheek pressed uncaringly to the cool stone tiles in a cruel mockery of her time in front of the Dark Lord. After what feels like an age she hears muffled sobs echoing around the room, and she realises with a start that that she’s crying. With a whimper she pushes herself upright, but the change in position makes her sensitive insides twitch, and she has to scramble for the toilet before she’s violently sick. 

She heaves into the porcelain bowl, expelling the contents of her stomach until there’s nothing left for her to give. Her mind steadfastly refuses to process what just happened to her, short circuiting over and over again every time she tries to acknowledge that the toy inside of her is either sentient or being controlled. She has no idea which option is the more terrifying of the two.

Her stomach finally stops spasming when she’s left with just acid, but she can’t bring herself to move. How on earth can she leave this room, how can she face other people, knowing that the monstrosity between her legs might surge to life at any moment?

Her poor, exhausted mind suddenly conjures up an image of her explaining to Molly that she has to be excused because You-Know-Who is trying to give her an orgasm, and her sobs morph into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter.

It seems she’s finally found her breaking point, hugging the bowl of a slightly grimy communal toilet. Dignity is apparently not a word that has any place in Hermione’s vocabulary any more.

Eventually her muscles start to cramp so badly she can’t ignore them, and she reluctantly pushes herself up to standing. She feels weak, like a newborn foal, and she has to use the wall for support as she moves cautiously towards the door. She’ll head straight back to her room, she decides, and finally use one of those vials of Dreamless Sleep she’s been saving for truly desperate times. If this doesn’t warrant the stuff she doesn’t know what will.

Maybe she’ll wake up to find that this whole ordeal is nothing more than another one of her twisted, sordid nightmares.

The lock slides open with a click that sounds overly loud to her ears, and she has to take a deep, calming breath before she can make herself open the door.

A dark-robed figure pushes away from the wall opposite the bathroom as she emerges, and in the fragile state she’s in her first thought is that it’s a Death Eater come to take her again. With a cry she spins away from the door, pulling her wand out of her sleeve and levelling it at the intruder before her brain finally recognises the man.

Snape hold his hands up in front of him, taking a pointed step backwards. “I mean you no harm,” he says, like Hermione would ever think that he did.

“What are you doing here?” That wasn’t what she had meant to say. She had meant to apologise, first for the night before and then for drawing her wand on him now, but the words slip out of her mouth before she can correct them.

“I overheard Mr. Weasley commenting that you seemed to be in distress this morning. I only meant to ensure that you were well.”

“How did you know I was here?” Hermione pointedly doesn’t think about the fact that her exit from the kitchen had been alarming enough to warrant gossip.

“I could hear you through the door.”

“You could hear me?” Hermione finally lowers her wand, her other hand coming up to cover her mouth in despair. If Snape heard her then surely that means that others... 

“I cast a  _ Muffliato _ on the room as soon as I was certain it was you,” Snape’s voice is strangely neutral. “And ensured that no other members of the house ventured into this corridor while you were...indisposed.”

“Oh.” Hermione isn’t sure how to process this frankly unprecedented act of thoughtfulness. “I...erm...thank you for that.”

Snape merely bows his head in acknowledgement, something indecipherable churning behind his dark eyes.

“Are you still in distress?” he asks, the words stilted on his lips, and Hermione has the odd thought that this is quite possibly the most openly compassionate she has ever seen the man.

She repays his kindness with cowardice as, for the second time in less than twenty four hours, she turns and all but runs away from him.

* * *

The Dreamless Sleep knocks her out for a full twenty-four hours, and she wakes feeling groggy and dehydrated. The potion is effective, no doubt about it, but the side effects certainly leave something to be desired. She steadfastly keeps the toilet out of her line of sight as she moves around her small bathroom; the slight pulsing of her bladder not nearly enough for her bring herself to face that indignity again just yet.

Still, she has some sleep under her belt for the first time in what feels like forever, and she feels like she might actually be able to face the day as she downs a full pint of water before brushing her teeth and getting dressed. 

The  _ incident _ yesterday was probably just a one-off nastiness, she concludes firmly. Most likely just some residue magic that needed to be used up. No reason to be unduly concerned about it, really.

She makes it through breakfast without any surprises, waving off Ron’s concern with a story about having eaten something that clearly didn’t agree with her, and when Fred and George invite her to help stress test some of their new gadgets she finds herself accepting, to the unconcealed surprise of most of the room.

It actually ends up being quite a fun day. To say the twins have mellowed in recent years would be a barefaced lie, but the war has given them a focus for their mayhem, and they’ve taken to their role as gadget masters for the Order with aplomb. Hermione feels a bit like an agent in James Bond as Fred walks her through their latest line of communication gems, and George gives her an admittedly impressive demonstration of their new exploding quills. She even has a few suggestions of her own for arming the devices with different hexes via different ink substrates, and the three of them spend a delightful few hours going through the charm compositions required for such an invention.

The twins were never given enough credit at Hogwarts, she thinks with a smile as she watches them animatedly debate the merits of using  _ Depulso _ versus  _ Flippendo _ .

She falls into bed that night tired but satisfied, a feeling she hasn’t felt in far too long. Tomorrow she’ll seek out Snape and apologise properly - she’s ashamed at just how many she owes the man by now - and once that’s done she can focus on putting this whole nasty business behind her.

She’s on the cusp of unconsciousness, that familiar tightrope edge between sleep and waking, when the toy starts up again with a vengeance.

She jerks upright with a start, her brain taking a few long moments to process what’s going on. When she finally puts together the pieces she moans in despair, slumping back on the mattress in dejected defeat.

The toy’s actions aren’t as much of a surprise this time, for all that they’re still horribly unwelcome, and once Hermione has gotten over the initial shock of it starting up again she quickly resolves not to lose herself like she did last time.

She is a strong, capable witch. She decides when she does and does not orgasm, thank you very much.

She forces herself not to pay attention to the humming between her legs, squeezing her eyes shut and firmly telling her body to focus on sleep. There’s nothing going on here, nothing at all.

The toy apparently doesn’t like being ignored, and starts to pick up the pace until it’s vibrating so vigorously Hermione fears it may actually be shaking the bed-frame. She growls and slams her legs together in an attempt to stifle its movement, and starts reciting the most boring events of Wizarding History she can think of. She can practically hear Professor Binns droning in her ear, and if that won’t send her to sleep she doesn’t know what will.

It’s a struggle, but she’s always prided herself in being an expert in mind over matter. She forces herself to breath slowly, steadily, willing her body to slip into unconsciousness as she firmly ignores the thing that  _ isn’t _ gyrating obscenely between her legs. After a while she even starts to trick her body into acquiescence, which turns out to be a double edge sword.

As lassitude starts to curl around her, her brain slowly loses it’s grasp on quite why she’s supposed to be denying herself. The shaft of the toy pauses, and the base plate starts humming against her clit, and the soft gasp of pleasure slips through her lips before she can stop it.

_ “Fuck, the bitch is actually enjoying herself,” one of the many spectators catcalls as the Death Eater behind her rolls his hips langously, his actions combining with the arousal charm to make her spine tense and her toes curl. She whimpers, the sound morphing into a moan of pleasure on her lips as the toy matches its pace to her attacker, stroking both her walls with the same long slides. _

_ “Witches nowadays act all high and mighty, but deep down they all just want to be fucked.” the man behind her laughs, his voice a horrible scratch that makes Hermione shudder. “You watch, by the time I’m done she’ll be gagging for us to give her more.” _

_ “No,” Hermione tries to say, the word catching in her throat on yet another moan. She can feel the familiar heat building in her core, knows exactly where this is leading but she can’t, she won’t… _

_ The toy switches position, massaging her front wall more artfully than even her own fingers are capable of, and Hermione’s furious denial morphs into a gasping sob of pleasure as her orgasm tears through her like a summer storm. She arches and shudders, her body collapsing to the floor, and her attacker laughs as he slips out of her. He strokes himself to completion, once, twice, and then comes all over her back. Purpling bruises covered in white. _

_ “I told you,” he says with a leer. “Deep down, they all love it.” _

“No!” Hermione shouts, jerking back to full wakefulness, but it’s too late. Her body is already primed, and her sudden movement only serves to set her off. She screams into her fist as she comes, biting down on her knuckles in frustration as her body tenses from head to toe.

“Fuck!” she screams, slamming her fist down on the mattress as something thick and bitter settles in her gut in the wake of her climax. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

She feels dirty. Filthy and wrong. She can still feel that monster’s come tacky on her skin, hear her forced cry of pleasure ringing in her ears, and she can’t believe what she just did. What she let happen. 

She flings herself out of bed and hurls herself into the bathroom, cranking up the water of the shower as hot as it will go before stepping under the spray. It’s practically scalding, her skin immediately turning bright red wherever the water hits, but Hermione relishes it. Maybe if she burns off a layer of skin she’ll actually feel clean underneath.

She stands under the spray until her legs start to shake, and then she sits on the hard tile floor, arms wrapped around her knees, until long after the water goes cold. 

* * *

Things start to go downhill very rapidly for Hermione after that. 

If the house thought her a recluse before, now she’s practically a ghost. Slipping into rooms as soon as she hears the last person leave, vacating them as soon as there's even a hint of anybody else joining her. 

She can't be around people, not like this, not with how she is now. 

The toy accosts her at least once a day, with just enough irregularity that she can't predict when it will start up next. She's tried. Her room is scattered with pieces of parchment with dates and times and durations, her days now spent desperately trying to find some method in the madness that has apparently become her life. 

She knows everyone is concerned about her. She's heard them talking through closed doors as she hovers just out of sight, waiting for them to leave. The one time she bumped into McGonagall coming out of the bathroom the older witch had looked like she couldn’t decide whether to shake her or plead with her. Hermione had excused herself back to her bedroom before she had time to make up her mind. 

She knows her current way of life isn't sustainable, but she doesn't know what to do about it. Her days are now dictated by a hunk of silicone magically bonded to her flesh, and no matter what she tries, it's relentless in its attack on both her body and her sanity. 

Almost two weeks after the damned thing first made its presence known, Hermione is exhausted. Defeated. Her rationality has abandoned her, broken and scattered to the winds, and in its place is the slightly delirious conviction that can only come from absolute desperation. 

This is some sort of karmic retribution for her outburst at Snape. The toy only started the day after she was so awful to him, after all.

It's this conviction that leads her to his door at six in the morning, another sleepless night persuading her that her torment won't end until she makes amends.

The man who opens the door is so unlike the professor of her childhood that she visibly does a double take. Gone is the frock coat and cravat, replaced with sleep trousers and a loose top. At least both items are black, or Hermione’s poor brain would have probably never recovered from the shock. 

Snape’s eyes widen infinitesimally as he acknowledges her presence, but he makes no move to speak. 

There’s a long pause as Hermione realises she has no idea what she wants to say. Her sleep-deprived brain has planned as far as arriving at Snape’s room, and no further apparently.

“I'm sorry,” she finally blurts out as her resolve starts to abandon her, uncaring of how pathetic she sounds. She just wants this whole mortifying ordeal to be over. 

Snape is silent for another beat, lips pressed tightly together as he processes her words. “I told you, you never have to apologise to me,” he finally replies, each word stilted and clipped. 

Hermione blinks, brain slow to process this apparent non-answer. This...this wasn’t what she had expected at all. She frowns, wondering if he misunderstood her intent. “I’m sorry for what I said to you the other day,” she clarifies hesitantly.

“I am aware of what you meant.” Snape’s expression remains determinedly unreadable, and Hermione finds herself wanting to scream at his perceived indifference to her plight.

“Then you must know that I didn’t mean it.” Hermione is ashamed to hear the desperate tone to her voice, but she doesn't understand why Snape won't just say he forgives her and let this whole ordeal be over. “What I said to you was hurtful,  _ hateful _ , but I swear I didn't mean it! How could I blame you for-” 

“You should,” Snape interrupts, voice cold. “You should blame me.”

“I blame them!” Hermione argues fiercely, slashing her wand furiously as she casts a hasty  _ Muffilato _ around them. “I blame every man in that room who placed his hands on me, who followed Voldemort’s orders with a laugh and a smile. They revelled in hurting me. Did you revel in seeing me be hurt?”

Snape rears back in horror. “I would never-” 

“Then you are not like them.” Hermione finishes with conviction, relieved to finally be sure of something in this fucked up world. “You are nothing like them, and I'm sorry I even suggested that you were.”

“Whilst I appreciate your conviction,” Snape says with what sounds like strictly enforced patience as his gaze darts up and down the corridor. “Your stance is naive and ill-informed.” 

“Why do you insist on being so obtuse all the damn time!” Hermione exclaims, losing the last of her admittedly tenuous grasp on her composure. “Why can't you just say ‘Thank you for your apology Hermione, I accept’? Why can’t you  _ Oh-”  _ She pitches forward, hand coming up to grasp at Snape’s door-frame as the blasted toy starts up inside of her, making her toes curl into the plush carpet lining the halls. 

No, please no. This can’t be happening. Not now, not in front of  _ him _ .

“Miss Granger!” Snape sounds alarmed as he jerks forward, hand coming up to hover just below her elbow. “What on earth is the matter?” 

“The….the snake,” Hermione bites out, a small part of her wondering why she's incapable of lying to Snape like she is to everyone else.

“What about it?” 

“It's...it's moving. Inside of me.” Did she really need to clarify that second part? It's hardly as if it would be moving anywhere else. 

Snapes expression darkens, and he throws his door open wide as he steps aside. “Inside. Now.”

Hermione is so distracted by the pulsing between her legs that she barely takes in her surroundings as she enters Snape’s hallowed private quarters. She'll regret that later, she's sure of it.

Snape guides her to a deep leather armchair that does its best job of swallowing her whole as she sinks into it, while he perches on the edge of its twin opposite her. 

“Explain.” His voice holds no room for debate. 

Hermione swallows once, twice, all of the moisture in her mouth vanishing in the face of Snape’s indomitable stare. The toy’s constant humming threatens to draw her focus, but not even magically charmed vibrators are enough for her to ignore a direct order from her ex-professor. 

“It moves, sometimes,” she says, fixing her gaze on the wall just past Snape’s shoulder.

“Sometimes?” 

“At least once a day, sometimes more. I can't predict it.”

“I see.” Snape’s voice is painfully even. “And it is causing you discomfort?” 

Hermione blushes, toying with her hands in her lap just to give herself something else to focus on. The snake starts to gyrate in lazy figures of eight inside of her, massaging her inside walls in a way that makes sparks erupt behind her eyes. “I'm not sure discomfort is exactly the right word.”

Snape’s expression is blank, then his eyes widen as comprehension dawns. Hermione’s blush deepens as she's forced to admit that her ex-professor now knows the depths of her depravity. 

“I see,” he repeats again, although this time his voice sounds strained. “And this is a problem?” 

“Of course it's a problem!” Hermione exclaims, gesturing wildly with her hands as her voice rises rapidly in pitch. “It starts up inside of me whenever it wants, and I'm powerless to stop it. I don’t want to, I swear I don’t, but I can’t...it makes me...”

Snape holds his hand up to stem her words. “I understand. My phrasing was tactless, and for that I apologise.”

“I try to ignore it,” Hermione continues, for some reason desperate for Snape to understand that she's at least trying to combat this awful intrusion, “But its so insistent and it makes it so hard to focus, and it feels just like when they-”

“Miss Granger,” Snape tries to interrupt again. “You don't need to justify anything to me.”

“I just want it to stop! I hate that they still have power over me, that they can still make my body bend to their will over and over and there's nothing I can do-  _ Oh god _ .” Hermione hunches forward in the chair as the toy picks up the pace, determined to wring its pleasure from her like it has done so many times before. Her cheeks are so flushed she can practically feel the heat radiating from them; wasn’t it enough that he was witness to her original debasement? Does he really have to see her like this as well?

Snape coughs roughly, and when Hermione recovers enough to meet his gaze again she notices a slight flush to his cheeks, even as his expression remains completely neutral. 

He steeples his fingers underneath his chin as he regards her pensively.  “Do you feel like you could deny its advances if you were sufficiently distracted?” he asks, studiously ignoring her emphatic reactions to the toy’s ministrations.

Hermione gasps, fingers clenching into arms of the couch as she attempts to keep her body in line. “I've tried,” she grunts, “I’ve tried everything I can think of, but it’s so damn persistent. I'm not… I’m not strong enough.”

Snape is silent for another moment, then abruptly gets up and crosses to the other side of the room. Hermione just about has time to wonder whether he's leaving her to her humiliation in peace when he returns with a well-read book that Hermione vaguely recognises from her sixth year at Hogwarts. 

He deposits the book on the coffee table in front of her with a satisfying thump. “Page seventy-three, if you will.”

“Wh- what?” she says, bewildered. 

“I haven't got all day, Miss Granger.” His voice is so reminiscent of her time at Hogwarts that she's scrambling to comply before she can even think about what she's doing. The book flutters open to a densely worded page filled with cramped handwriting.

“Explain to me Golpalott’s Third Law.”

Hermione looks at Snape in surprise, feeling a little like he's suddenly started talking another language. 

“I'm sorry?”

“Do I need to repeat myself? Or were you sleeping through my classes like the rest of your compatriots?” Snape’s coal-black eyes bore into her challengingly, and Hermione finds her spine straightening in anticipation, her focus  _ finally _ on something other than the incessant humming between her legs. 

Silicone-snake-induced orgasms can wait. She has a point to prove. 

“Golpalott’s Third Law states that the antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components,” she quotes verbatim. “The potion-maker must find that single ingredient which, when added to the blended antidotes, transforms them near-alchemically into a combined whole which will counteract the entire blended poison.”

Light shines in Snape’s eyes, and he leans forward in his own chair, mimicking Hermione’s position. “Indeed, and why is that so often a near-impossible task?”

They talk for an hour, and then another. At first Hermione finds it easy to bury herself in the questions posed by her ex-professor, but as time passes - and the toy shows no sight of stopping - she finds herself starting to flag. 

“Miss Granger,” Snape’s sharp voice jolts her back to the present for what feels like the hundredth time. “Do I have to threaten to take away house points in order to keep your attention?” 

“I don't think the hourglasses count points lost by alumni,” Hermione replies with a smile that is more of a grimace. Her breath is coming in short, aborted pants, the beads of sweat running down her face making her fringe stick to her forehead. “Which is -  _ ah _ \- probably for the best, all things considered.”

“I assure you, I am more than happy to put that theory to the test,” Snape’s tone is as dry as ever, but Hermione is sure she isn’t imagining the undercurrent of concern she can hear in his voice. It’s probably that which finally tips her over the edge.

“It’s not working!” she exclaims, slapping the armrest of the couch in frustration. “It’s been -  _ oh - _ it’s been hours, and it’s not stopping. If anything it’s getting worse!”

Snape looks like he wants to argue with her, but if nothing else the man has never been one for false platitudes. “We may be forced to consider the possibility that it is spelled to continue until you-” he pauses, coughing roughly before continuing, “until you reach completion.”

Hermione moans in despair and buries her face in her hands. She’d come to the same conclusion herself about half an hour ago, but hearing Snape say it turns it from a theory to a certainty.

“I don’t want to,” she whispers into her hands, her tears starting to wet her palms. “I don’t want to.”

All she can think of are those hands that touched her, those cocks that fucked her and made her come, arching and screaming and utterly unwilling. The very idea of climaxing makes her want to vomit. 

“I am so very sorry,” she’s never heard Snape sounds so regretful, and for some reason that only makes the tears flow harder. “Would you like me to escort you back to your rooms?”

Hermione takes a deep breath, then uncovers her face with a rough exhale, pushing herself out of the chair by the armrests. She’s barely three inches out of the seat when the snake twists and pulses viciously, sending her slumping back down with a yelp.

“I- I don’t think I can,” she’s forced to admit, looking anywhere but at Snape. 

Snape nods brusquely, and stands up himself. “In that case I shall give you your privacy,” he says with a sharp nod, moving to vacate his own rooms and leave Hermione alone with her mortification.

“Don’t leave.” She doesn’t know why she says it. She certainly doesn’t want him to have to see her like this -   _ again - _ but all of a sudden the idea of being alone seems completely unbearable. 

Being alone means she only has her memories for company, and those are worse than any alternative.

Snape’s footsteps pause, the floor creaking as he slowly turns back around. She pointedly doesn’t look at him, talking to the wall in front of her instead. “When...when it happens. It’s like I’m back there,” she explains, clenching her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “It’s like it’s happening all over again. When they used that spell to make me...to force me to…” she breaks off with a sob that catches in her throat and morphs into a moan as the toy throbs inside her. 

A pause, then more footsteps and suddenly Snape in crouched in front of her, his face level with hers. “What can I do?” he asks, one hand coming to rest lightly on her knee. His expression so painfully unguarded that Hermione can’t help letting out another distressed sob.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I just don’t want to go back there alone.”

“Close your eyes,” Snape says, voice low and soothing in a way that’s so unlike anything she’s heard from the man before. Hermione gulps but follows his instructions, welcoming the darkness. Snape doesn’t say anything else, but his hand remains on her knee, warm and solid and keeping her from floating away in a sea of so much turmoil.

He doesn’t give her any more instructions, his light touch the only point of contact between them. She knows she’s only putting off the inevitable at this point, so she lets out a long, steady exhale, and forces herself to relax her core ever so slightly. Her whole body had been tense for so long, every cell in her body straining to deny itself, that even this fractional release rushes through her like wildfire. The toy, seeming to sense her weakening resolve, goes in for the kill, and before Hermione can even process the change her body is shuddering it’s way through an orgasm far too long denied.

As soon as she hits the peak of her climax the voices start, just like they always do. Taunting, mocking voices that by now are all too familiar. The voices laugh at her release, mocking the way her body embraces what her mind rejects. She can feel hands on her hips, on her back, between her thighs. One set paws at her breasts, pinching her nipples roughly between calloused fingers. They tell her that this is what she wants, what she  _ deserves _ .

She believes them, because what is the alternative?

She sobs and shudders her way through the aftershocks of her orgasm, her eyes still squeezed tightly closed as she slumps back into the seat underneath her, panting and utterly spent. The toy is finally quiet inside of her, leaving behind an empty void that feels like it might consume her whole. Maybe it already has.

“Blended antidotes are far from the only potions that rely on the concept of synergy, of course. In fact, almost all areas of magic will prove that any valuable creation is greater than the sum of its parts. The term itself comes from the greek word  _ synergos,  _ which quite literally means   _ working together _ -” Snape is talking in slow, languous sentences that seem to have no end and no beginning, lilting and cresting around her in a steady wave. She allows herself to float along with them, not taking in the words so much as the sentiment as he leisurely continues his one-sided conversation.

She’s not alone. More importantly, she’s not with  _ them _ .

Slowly, word by word, she feels the void start to recede, determinedly forced back by Snape’s steady speech, until she feels like she can open her eyes and not be confronted by more darkness.

Snape is still crouching in front of her, on hand still lightly on her knee. As her eyes flutter open he stops speaking, dipping his head slightly to meet her gaze. “Welcome back,” he says in the same steady tone as before, only this time the words are directed at her rather than around her. “How are you feeling?”

Hermione opens her mouth to reply, and realises her throat is parched. She coughs, swallowing a few times before trying again. “Like shit,” she rasps, a small part of her thrilling at the idea of swearing in front of a professor. Small victories, she guesses.

Snape’s eyes flash, and the edge of his mouth twitches as he  _ Accio’s _ a glass of water from his bathroom. “I see you do want me to test your theory regarding alumni and the loss of house points.”

Hermione barks out a tired laugh, taking small sips from the glass she’s just been handed. She still feels awful, her heart still so tender and bruised, but Snape’s droll humour is unexpected, and refreshing in a way she didn’t know she needed. He seems happy to pick up where they left off, like she hasn’t just lost another piece of herself to the darkness. 

Like she isn’t any less for what she’s just done.

She makes herself sit up a bit straighter, wincing as her oversensitive core rubs against the base of the toy. “I should probably go back to my room,” she says with a sigh. She needs a shower, possibly more than one. It feels like the grime never comes off nowadays.

“You are welcome to stay, if you wish.”

Hermione frowns, wondering if Snape truly means that or if he’s simply trying to be polite after what just transpired. Probably the latter, she quickly decides. The man isn’t exactly one for excessive companionship after all.

“Thank you, but I won’t overstay my welcome,” she says, firmly ignoring the uncomfortable ache between her legs as puts the glass down on the table next to her and stands up. Snape looks like he’s about to protest, so she quickly adds, “besides, I should probably...um...freshen up.”

Snape’s expression darkens, and he nods abruptly. “Understood.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause after that, before Hermione coughs and dips her head in conclusion. “Well, goodbye then,” she says awkwardly, turning towards the door. 

“You will let me know if there’s anything that I can brew for you.” Snape’s words sound more like a command than a question, but Hermione pauses and turns back towards him anyway.

“I will,” she says, surprised to see a flicker of relief cross his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. “And...thank you for today. Truly.”

Snape nods brusquely, “It was -  _ is _ \- the least that I can do.”

Hermione doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, so she simply nods and makes her exit. She gets halfway down the corridor before her legs give out underneath her and she sinks to the floor, her breath escaping in a rough exhale as she wraps her arms around her knees and buries her face in the crook of her elbow, completely uncaring of what she must look like.

Snape’s slow, melodious speech continues to float its way around her brain, enveloping her and shielding her from the last vestiges of the memory of her attack the snake has wrought. In the space of just a few hours he’s given her something she didn’t think was possible any more; hope that things might not be this bad forever.

For some reason that absolutely terrifies her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter folks. I sent the original draft to my wonderful beta who replied with (and I'm paraphrasing somewhat here) "Yeah...this isn't working at all for you" which is reason #321 why I love and need her but also...owch! 
> 
> Anyways I kind of had to go back to the drawing board with the second half of this chapter, and will almost certainly be taking a sledgehammer to the next few chapters, which means that there may be a bit more space between updates for a bit. Sorry about that, but I'm kind of hoping that you guys would prefer 'better' over 'faster'! 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter, it's been a bit of a rollercoaster!

“Hermione! We know you’re in there!” Sharp banging on her bedroom door makes her jump, her wand already in her hand as she looks up from the notes scattered across her bed. 

 

She forces herself to take a steadying breath, then another, then determinedly goes back to her notes. She knows the drill by now; sooner or later they’ll get bored and go away.

 

“We’re not leaving until you open this door. I mean it, we’ll stay here all day if we have to.”

 

Hermione sighs - so much for that plan then. She recognises this particular cadence of Harry’s voice all too well; he fully intends to follow through on his threat. With a huff she slides off her bed, tucking her wand into her sleeve so that it’s still in easy reach if needed, and goes to open the door.

 

The knocking continues as she crosses the room, and she’s rewarded for her troubles by Ron very nearly rapping her on the nose as she opens the door.

 

“Hermione!” Harry exclaims, sounding surprised to see her, like he and Ron aren’t here for that express purpose.

 

“Hello,” Hermione says hesitantly, all too aware of what’s surely about to come next.

 

“Are you okay?” Ron asks, sounding genuinely distraught. “We haven’t seen you in days. What’s wrong ‘mione?” 

 

Hermione winces, “Nothing’s wrong, I’ve just been caught up in my research, that’s all.”

 

“Come off it,” Harry says, frowning. “We know what you’re like when you’ve got the bit between your teeth about something, and it’s not this. We’re your friends, Hermione and we’re worried about you. Talk to us, please.”

 

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine, really.” Hermione hates having to lie to her best friends like this. They’ve all been through so much together, been there for one another throughout everything the last few years have thrown at them. She wishes she could tell them what really happened to her, what’s  _ still _ happening to her, but she can’t. She just can’t.

 

Ron huffs angrily, clearly not buying her feeble excuses. “If you’re so fine, what have you been doing all this time?” he asks, ears starting to tinge pink like they always do when he’s frustrated.

 

“I told you, I’ve been researching.”

 

“Even if that is true,” Harry’s tone makes it very clear how unlikely he finds that, “you don’t have to take on the whole of the Order’s investigations on your own, Hermione.”

 

“I’m not doing it on my own.” She doesn’t quite know where she’s going with her argument now, but the lies are snowballing and she doesn’t know how to get them to stop.

 

“Oh really? Who are you working with? Because we’ve talked to Fred, and George, and Tonks-”

 

“Snape!” The name bursts out of her mouth before she can think about what a terrible idea this is. “I’ve been working with Professor Snape, okay?”

 

Harry’s mouth slams shut at the exact moment Ron’s falls open, both boys looking equally dumbstruck at her confession.

 

“You’ve been working with  _ Snape _ ?” Ron finally asks, incredulous. 

 

“He’s a brilliant wizard,” Hermione says defensively, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

 

“Nobody’s denying that,” Harry says, shooting a warning glare at Ron who looks like he might be about to do just that. “But Snape? Really Hermione?”

 

“It’s...it’s important work,” she deflects, allowing herself to subtly exhale now that their focus is on something other than her reclusiveness.

 

Harry frowns again, eyes squinting behind his glasses like he’s trying to see the lie floating around her. “Fine. Okay. You’re working on… important stuff with Snape,” he finally concedes, even though it sounds like he very much doesn't want to, “But please, come down for dinner tonight at least? Molly might actually have kittens if she doesn’t see you soon.”

 

Hermione’s stomach twists, suddenly ashamed that she’s caused everyone to be so concerned. This is exactly what she was trying to avoid after all. “I’ll...I’ll see if I can make it,” she offers, unable to make her brain commit to anything more concrete.

 

Harry’s expression shutters at her non-committal answer, but Ron nods and starts to draw Harry away from her doorway. “If you can’t we understand,” he says, surprisingly gently, “but everyone would love to see you.”

 

“I’ll see if I can make it,” Hermione repeats, willing her voice not to shake as she closes the door with a firm click.

 

Silence reigns for a long moment, then she groans and covers her eyes with her hand. Fuck, now she needs to talk to Snape again.

 

* * *

 

“If anybody asks, we’ve been working on a project together.” Hermione doesn’t bother with pleasantries as Snape opens his door to her for the second time in as many days. She feels like they're probably past that, considering their last interaction. 

 

“Excuse me?” Snape says, his voice crisp and dismissive and completely different from the last time they talked. Hermione doesn’t quite know what to make of that, and the uncertainty brings out her Gryffindor bullishness in full force.

 

“If anybody asks,” she repeats, forcing herself not to back down in the face of her ex-professor’s trademark glare, “especially Harry or Ron, I need you to tell them we’ve been working on a project together and that’s why they haven’t seen me around recently.”

 

“I see,” Snape drawls. “You require me to lie.”

 

“Not lie, per se,” Hermione counters. “It’s more of an adjustment of the truth.”

 

“You sound like a Slytherin when you say that.”

 

“Then this shouldn’t be a problem for you, should it?”

 

Snape stares down at Hermione, who crosses her arms and stares back up. She’s well aware that she’s the one asking him for a favour, and thus probably should be phrasing this more politely, but she's tired, and stressed, and just wants this latest mess sorted. She feels like she's owed a pass given everything she’s been through lately, quite frankly.  

 

Finally Snape hums and pushes his door open wide, standing to the side and gesturing her forward. “You’d best come in then.”

 

Hermione frowns, not expecting that response. “Sir?” 

 

“I have spent over half my life spinning lies in service of one master or another,” Snape says, sounding surprisingly tired. “Now that I am free of that burden I refuse to continue simply to appease your folly. If you wish to say we have been working together, then that is what we shall actually be doing.”

 

Hermione blinks in shock, unable to comprehend what Snape is suggesting. She's been entertaining the vague hope that he might consider starting up their book exchange again sometime soon - academic books of course, not the…other ones - but to actually work together? She’s daydreamed about such an occurrence for years, practically since she was a first year. The idea of finally being seen as the intellectual equal of a revered Professor of Hogwarts is a goal she thought she was decades away from achieving, and to be offered such a thing by the man most hard to please…

 

“I don’t wish to be an inconvenience.” The words taste like ash in her mouth. The thought that he might be offering her this hallowed opportunity out of obligation - or worse, pity - is almost too much for her to bear.

 

Snape frowns at her, lips pressed together tightly. “I do not offer this lightly,” he says brusquely. “If you do not think you are up to the challenge-”

 

“I am,” Hermione quickly interrupts, surging forward as if fearful that he might slam the door in her face. “I’m ready, I want to do this.”

 

Snape stares at her for another long moment, while Hermione tries not to squirm under his gaze. Finally he nods and gestures inside once more. “Very well. Come on in, then.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, Hermione does manage to make it downstairs for dinner that evening, surprising nobody more than herself. 

 

Her afternoon spent with Snape had been...invigorating. There’s really no other word for it. They’d quickly agreed on ground rules; they’re to meet in the house library at nine am everyday, unless by prior agreement, and initially focus their attentions on poisons, including Hermione’s competing antidote theory which she maintains still has legs.

 

She'd been surprised when Snape had agreed to her topic of interest without fuss, although he had insisted that their endeavours remain purely theoretical until he was convinced of the viability of her plan. In retrospect, Hermione has to admit it's a sensible restriction. His other stipulation - that they pause for an hour lunch break every day to be taken in the communal kitchen - still rankles her though. She dislikes the implication that she's unable to properly care for herself unless formally instructed. However, Snape had made it clear that the requirement was not up for negotiation, and if that's the price Hermione has to pay for this collaboration, then she supposes it's not too steep.

 

Most of the Order is already seated at the kitchen table when Hermione makes her entrance alongside Snape, all heads swivelling towards the door in unison. Hermione has to force down the urge to flee back to her room, determinedly holding her head high in the face of so many shocked expressions.

 

“Mind if we join you?” she says, directing her question to Molly at the head of the packed table.

 

Molly starts, visibly shaking off her shock as she quickly stands up. “Of course, dear,” she says, bustling to the counter to fix up two more plates. “As if you even have to ask.”

 

She shepherds the two of them into empty seats at the far end of the table between McGonagall and Tonks, placing plates laden with food in front of them. Hermione’s stomach churns at the thought of consuming so much food after her practical-starvation diet of the past week, but she forces herself to smile gratefully up at the older witch.

 

“Thank you Molly, this looks delicious.”

 

Molly smiles, patting Hermione fondly on the cheek. “It’s so good to see you again dear, we were starting to get a mite concerned.”

 

Hermione blushes, directing her gaze back to the table so she doesn’t have to deal with the full force of Molly’s affection. “I’m sorry for worrying you all.”

 

“Hermione says you two are working on some top secret project,” Ron says from down the other end of the table, squinting suspiciously at Snape as he talks.

 

“Indeed,” Snape replies with the same cool tone he always directs at the younger Weasley.

 

Ron visibly bristles, and Hermione jumps in quickly. “It’s not that secret,” she says, trying to diffuse the situation before it gets out of hand. “We’re just still in the investigation stage. We’ll share everything when we’re more sure of things, I promise.”

 

“That may not be wise,” Snape counters. “In these uncertain times compartmentalization of knowledge is almost always safest.”

 

“Severus is right, I’m afraid,” McGonagall chooses that moment to chime in. “Albus implemented a strict need-to-know structure for the Order, which I have been following to the best of my ability.”

 

Hermione frowns, and opens her mouth to argue. She, Ron and Harry have always shared everything when it comes to the war effort, and she doesn’t intend to stop now. Before she can say anything though, a memory flashes in her mind. The serpentine Voldemort towering above her, his wand pointed at her temple as he rifles through her brain without care.

 

She shudders, closing her eyes tightly against the memory. They’re right. It’s safer for the boys not to know. 

 

Silence falls across the table, awkward and stifling, and Hermione starts to think she’s made a mistake coming down here tonight. She’s sure dinners were never this tense before. It must be her, then. She’s the one making everything worse.

 

She pushes her chair back with a harsh scrape, determined to retreat back to the safety of her bedroom, but Snape places a light hand at her back to halt her progress. “We shall of course keep you all apprised of the progress we are making, even if we cannot share the specifics,” he says smoothly, as if this isn’t the biggest concession Hermione has ever heard the man make.

 

The room is quiet for a heavy beat, everyone obviously trying to process this unexpected turn of events, and for a moment Hermione thinks it won’t be enough to stop the storm that is undeniably brewing.

 

“Eh, that’s all we’d want, really,” Ron finally says, and Hermione can’t help blinking in shock at the idea that of everyone at the table, Ron is the one to break the stalemate. “You know the technical stuff will all just go over our heads anyway.”

 

His response causes a ripple of laughter around the table, and just like that the tension disappears. Cutlery scrapes against plates as the room digs into their food, and Hermione slowly feels her body start to relax. She can still feel the comforting weight of Snape’s hand between her shoulder blades, and she chances a quick glance towards him.

 

Snape nods once as he meets her gaze, then slowly withdraws his hand, turning his attention solemnly towards his dinner. Hermione can’t help the small smile that creeps across her face as she does the same.

 

* * *

 

Her days start to fall into a rhythm after that, one that’s far more pleasant than her self-imposed solitude of before. She and Snape meet as agreed each morning, then work in mostly companionable silence until lunch, digging through book after book for any information that might be pertinent. At precisely one pm each day Snape chivvies her from the library, ignoring her usual protests that she’s in the middle of something incredibly important and can’t he wait another ten minutes? He fixes them food while she makes the tea. Hermione is somewhat surprised to find that the man is actually a decent cook for someone who has lived in a castle with all his meals prepared by house elves for the past two decades. 

 

They’re usually joined by one or two other Order members each day, depending on schedules, and slowly Hermione finds her unease at being around others starts to abate. There are still certain topics that make her retreat inside of herself, letting the conversation flow around her until she’s ready to contribute again, but those times get fewer and farther between as the days progress. 

 

After lunch they discuss their findings, debating the merits of one another’s theories until the magical sconces lining the walls spring to life. That signals that it’s time for dinner, followed by more discussions which usually run until the small hours of the morning. When Snape retires for the night she continues on her own until her eyelids are drooping and her brain feels like it’s about the explode from all the information swirling around it. It’s easier to stave off the nightmares then, she’s found. 

 

All in all, Hermione can’t think of many better ways to spend her days. In fact she would probably say she was perfectly content, if it wasn’t for one small detail.

 

“I’m not saying that using a bezoar won’t work, I’m saying that-  _ oh for fucks sake _ .” Hermione groans, fingers clenching tightly onto the edge of the desk as the toy starts to hum softly inside of her, caressing her insides that would be utterly sensual if it was in any way consensual.  

 

Snape hums questioningly, and when Hermione waves absently in his direction he seamlessly picks up the thread of conversation she’s been forced to drop. Both of them have become depressingly used to these interruptions by now.

 

“You’re saying that a honking great stone in the midst of a potion would be too obvious for anybody attempting subterfuge,” he says as he gets up and crouches in front of her, placing his hands on her knees like he has done so many times before. “Which is why I’m suggesting that we grind the stone into power, then imbue it with an enhancing charm to counteract the effect of it no longer being one entity.”

 

“It would have to be a hell of an enhancing charm,” Hermione squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to keep her mind on the conversation and not the toy that has started pulsing in a figure of eight, thrusting in short movements deep inside of her as it gyrates. “A bezoar’s power comes from its completeness, from the the very concept of it being whole.”

 

“Of that I am well aware,” Snape replies dryly. “Or did you forget me teaching you that very thing?”

 

Hermione opens her mouth to reply, but the toy has clearly had enough of being ignored, and starts to move in the exact way that has her gasping and panting. (She’s starting to have a horrible suspicion that the thing is actually  _ learning _ the best ways to take her apart, but that’s definitely not something she’s ready to address just yet.) She groans and flinches in her chair, trying to escape the spectre of Lucius Malfoy that has apparently come to greet her along with today’s assault.

 

_ “That’s it, little lion,” _ the ghost croons, stroking his fingers featherlight along her jawline.  _ “Let me hear you scream.” _

 

Hermione cries out, a combination of relief and anguish as her release hits, tears escaping from the corners of her tightly closed eyes as she quickly drops.

 

“It’s something of a falsehood, you know, that the bezoar has to be whole,” Snape’s steady voice starts to creep in past the haze of self loathing that always finds her in these moments. “The original texts merely say that there can be no missing piece. Therefore, if one were very careful about retrieving every granule, there is no reason a ground stone could not be equally effective.”

 

“I suppose-” she gasps, desperately trying to drag herself away from Lucius and back to the present. “I suppose we could cast a collection spell on the mortar and pestle...to ensure nothing gets lost.”

 

“My thoughts exactly.” 

 

With what feels like a truly inhuman amount of effort, Hermione slowly opens her eyes. Snape is still crouched in front of her, his expression as sombre as the first time this happened. He raises one eyebrow questioningly, and Hermione exhales a shaky breath as she nods in response. She’s okay. Mostly.

 

“I wish you would let us spend more time investigating the binding spell that thing has on you,” Snape’s voice is faintly disapproving, and Hermione can’t help rolling her eyes. They’ve had this argument so many times by now.

 

“We spend too much time on it as it is,” she counters crossly. “Almost a third our time goes into studying the damn thing. The poisons are more important than my comfort.”

 

“Leaving aside the obvious fallacy in that statement,” Snape says, voice getting dangerously low, “have you considered that we would be altogether more effective in investigating said poisons if you were not periodically indisposed.”

 

“You think I don’t know that?!” Hermione exclaims, ashamed to hear her voice start to quaver. Her emotions are still too raw for her to be having this conversation. “You think I wouldn’t love to be free of this monster? We’ve tried everything we can think of and nothing works!” Her voice cracks and she forces herself to take a deep breath, taking a second to compose herself before continuing. “I’m stuck with it, and I have to accept that. We can’t afford to sink any more time into this fool’s errand.” 

 

Snape’s expression darkens, and he looks like he wants to argue further, but Hermione crosses her arms and glares defiantly back. After what feels like an age he huffs and stands up, brushing off his robes and returning to his side of the table without another word. Hermione takes another deep breath, stuffing this incident forcefully into a box at the back of her brain with all the others, and turns back to the texts in front of her. 

 

It’s done. It’s over. It’s time for her to move on.

 

“Miss Granger? Are you still with me?” 

 

Hermione’s head whips up with a start, surprised by Snape’s insistent tone. It sounds like he’s been trying to get her attention for a while, and as she meets his concerned gaze she's forced to admit that she hasn't moved on at all. Her head is still in that awful room, her mind still breaking apart piece by piece as the events of that night tattoo themselves across her skin. 

 

She shakes her head roughly, shoving the memories brutally down again. She can practically feel their claws digging into her flesh as they rail against being dismissed. “Sorry, I was miles away. What were you saying?” she asks, voice artificially bright as if she had been distracted by something completely inconsequential, and not the worst thing that has ever happened to her.

 

Snape raises an eyebrow at her, silently questioning why she's trying to deny what they both know. “Would you like to talk about it?” he asks cautiously. 

 

The air catches in Hermione’s throat at the offer, so completely unexpected that it throws her completely for a loop. Her expression must showcase her shock, as Snape’s posture immediately goes rigid.

 

“I understand I am hardly one’s first choice for such matters,” he says before Hermione can say anything, “but given your continued insistence on keeping your friends in the dark, and the fact that I am not nearly foolish enough to try and suggest that you talk to Healer Dresden, I’m afraid I may be the best the universe has to offer at present.”

 

“It’s very kind of you to offer.” Hermione is fully aware of how much her words sound like meaningless platitudes. “And I don’t think of you as a last ditch option - honestly - ” she insists as Snape snorts disbelievingly. “I just…I just don’t think I’m ready yet.”

 

“Understood,” Snape replies, expression softening fractionally. Hermione doubts she would have even noticed the change on the man a few weeks ago. “Regardless, I hope you know that it is a standing offer, without an expiry date.”

 

“I appreciate that, truly.” She’s a little surprised at how warm the gesture makes her feel inside; the idea that there’s somebody out there who understands what she’s going through, who is willing to stick with her throughout all this madness. 

 

A small part of her wonders if she would get the same rush of relief if it were anybody else making the offer, or if it’s specifically this man’s support that makes her feel like she might just be able to survive this seemingly unending ordeal. Her sensibilities want to insist on the former, but there’s a small tendril of  _ something _ that keeps flickering to life inside of her that makes her wonder...

 

All of a sudden, all of the emotional strain of the past half-hour hits her at once, and her gut wrenches as it very nearly overwhelms her. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, taking a few steadying breaths as she forces her heart-rate to calm down again. When she finally feels a bit more under control she chances a look back up at Snape, who is watching her with that same concerned expression on his face. “Will you excuse me,” she says, surprising even herself with the sheer exhaustion that’s suddenly colouring her voice. “I think I need to be alone for a little while.”

 

“Of course,” Snape replies, standing up himself as Hermione rises from her seat. It strikes her as the sort of chivalrous gesture that would usually infuriate her, but on Snape it feels strangely genuine. “You will let me know if there is anything I can do?”

 

“Of course,” Hermione mimics his response, a hint of a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. She turns and heads for the door, but as she reaches it something occurs to her.

 

“You know the same applies to you, right?” she says as she turns abruptly back towards Snape.

 

“Hmm?” Snape looks up from the book he’s already returned to, apparently surprised that she’s still there.

 

“If you wanted to talk...then I’m here too…only if you want to, of course,” Hermione trips over the words, feeling suddenly foolish for even thinking that he might need this from her. “That night...I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.”

 

Snape’s expression twists into something that looks like he can’t decide between disgust and anguish. “It is hardly comparable,” he says quietly.

 

“You keep saying that,” Hermione counters, “but I don’t think that’s true at all. You may not have been-” the word catches in her throat, still unable to be spoken aloud “- you may not have had to endure what I did - physically I mean - but that doesn’t mean that you didn’t suffer just as badly.”

 

There’s a long pause as Snape stares as Hermione, brow furrowed like he can’t quite process what she’s saying. 

 

“Well, it was just a suggestion,” Hermione finally says awkwardly, feeling embarrassed heat rush to her cheeks.

 

Snape barks out a rough laugh at that. “You and those ridiculous Gryffindor sensibilities of yours,” he says, though Hermione is sure she can hear a hint of fondness in his dry tone. He waves his hand dismissively. “Go, rest. We shall discuss this more tomorrow if you wish.”

 

Hermione nods and makes a quick exit from the room, not quite trusting herself to say anything further. It’s the first time she’s come even close to winning an argument against the man. She won’t admit even to herself how good it feels.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks to the amazing Lilinas for her help with this chapter! I think this was the most challenging chapter to get down on paper so far, but I think it turned out alright in the end! As always let me know what you think!

The nightmares come for Hermione with a vengeance that night; the pre-dawn light barely creeping into her room as she jerks awake with a half-aborted scream on her lips. She sits shivering for a long while, the duvet wrapped tight around her shoulders like protective armour, before finally sighing and slipping out of bed. She knows from painful, repeated experience that there’s no getting back to sleep now.

 

It’s far from the first time she’s crept down to the library in the small hours of the morning - she always makes sure to leave just before nine so that she can arrive back again precisely on the hour to meet Snape - but it is the first time she’s not been alone in her endeavors.

 

Hermione stands blinking in the doorway, mind trying to process the fact that Snape is still seated at their table, looking for all the world like he hasn’t left the room all night. Disheveled isn’t the right word to describe him - nobody in their right mind would ever call Professor Severus Snape _disheveled_ \- but his cravat is slightly off-centre, and his hair is ruffled in places like he’s run his fingers through it more than once. Hermione thinks one of his cufflinks might be missing. It feels an awful lot like she’s slipped into an alternate dimension.

 

“Sir?” she asks hesitantly, wondering if this surreal version of her ex-professor might actually be a hallucination brought on by tiredness and stress. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to have happened to her recently, not by a long shot.

 

Snape’s head whips up in surprise, eyes narrowing for a moment at the unexpected noise before he seemingly recognises her. “Ah, good, you’re here,” he says, waving her over like it isn’t barely five in the morning. “I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

 

“Okay,” Hermione says slowly, her brain still trying to decide how likely it is that she’s interacting with some sort of magical imposter as she crosses the room and slips into her usual seat opposite him. “Umm...have you been here all night?”

 

“Hmm?” Snape says absently, casting a quick _tempus_ in front of him. “Oh, I suppose so, yes.”

 

“And...that’s not an issue?”

 

Snape raises an eyebrow imperiously at her, and Hermione breathes a little sigh of relief since no imposter could mimic _that_ expression so perfectly. “Time moves apace, Miss Granger, and knowledge waits for no one. Especially not those who wish to sleep.”

 

“I see,” Hermione says, even though she doesn’t really. She needs a strong cup of tea before she’s ready for these sorts of philosophical musings.

 

“As I said, I have a proposal I wish to discuss with you.” Snape swiftly redirects the conversation, and Hermione shakes her head roughly to try and keep up. “I have been considering your...situation, and while it continues to frustrate me no end that we cannot address the root cause, I believe we may be able to cure the symptoms in the interim.”

 

“Symptoms?” Hermione asks slowly. “You mean the flashbacks?”

 

“Precisely.” Snape’s voice immediately softens. “Forgive me if I am speaking out of turn, but that appears to be the most distressing element for you, is it not?”

 

“I...I mean I guess so?” Hermione can’t help feeling a little overwhelmed by the direction this conversation is taking. She’s very pointedly avoided analysing the emotional ramifications of her ongoing assault, and she’s not entirely sure she’s ready to just yet.

 

Snape’s brow furrows at her hesitance, “Forgive me,” he says again, reaching out to tentatively rest his hand on the table next to Hermione’s own. “I appear to have gotten so caught up in my investigations I may have lost sight of the wood for the trees. If this is not something you are ready to discuss yet-”

 

“No, no it’s okay,” Hermione interrupts, taking a deep, steadying breath. Snape is right, she needs to be able to discuss this if she wants to have any chance of being able to move on from it in any meaningful way.

 

She takes another deep breath, letting her eyes flutter closed as she finally puts voice to all the emotions she’s been feeling - and suppressing - these past few weeks. “It’s like...It’s like I don’t have a choice, and it happens anyway. Every time it happens it’s like I’m right back there, being forced to do things I didn’t want to do, accept things I never wanted to accept. I have to relive that night every single time, and I know that it’s just chemicals brought on by a physical act, I _do_ , but it feels like my body is finding pleasure as a result of this awful thing that happened to me, and it makes me feel so … dirty.”

 

Silence falls in the wake of her confession, and Hermione can’t help peeking open one eye to gauge Snape’s reaction before opening the other. His expression is sombre, but his eyes are fiery. She knows the look well by now; it means he has an idea.

 

“So go on,” Hermione forces herself to say, “let’s hear this proposal of yours then.”

 

For the first time since she arrived, Snape looks uncertain. “If you are not ready, I understand.”

 

“No, I want to hear it,” Hermione says, lacing her voice with steel in an attempt to keep herself grounded. “You’re right, I can’t keep going on like this. So if you have an idea that might help, I want to hear it.”

 

For a moment Snape looks like he might protest further, but eventually he gives a curt nod, retrieving his hand so that he can steeple his fingers underneath his chin. “After you retired last night I flooed Healer Dresden-”

 

“You did what!” Hermione can’t help interrupting, her voice pitching high and panicked at the idea of the two of them discussing her. Discussing her _problem_.

 

Snape quickly holds up a hand to silence her. “We did not discuss you. Please believe I would never violate your trust like that.”

 

“You didn’t?” Hermione feels like she’s missing something crucial. “But then what…”

 

Snape returns his hand to underneath his chin, utterly composed once more. “I understand your concern, but rest assured the only patient discussed was myself.”

 

“Oh,” is all Hermione can think to say. She’s fully aware of just how much Snape would have hated talking about himself, and the idea that he would have done so just to preserve her privacy is more than a little overwhelming.

 

“Healer Dresden and I discussed how I was experiencing intrusive memories from that night,” Snape’s tone is perfectly even, disclosing nothing about whether what he’s saying is true or merely a foil for Hermione’s own problems. “She suggested a charm I could perform that would block my memory receptors from triggering, replacing them with a form of white noise.” He pushes a square of parchment across the table to Hermione, who stares down at it in bewilderment.

 

A charm to block the memories that have haunted her day in day out, stop the impressions that have become so much a part of her she sometimes feels like like she might need to use fiendfyre to burn them out of her.

 

It can’t possibly be that easy, can it?

 

“Healer Dresden stressed that this was only a short term solution, to be used in times of acute crisis,” Snape warns. “It is not a replacement for time spent with a mind healer, or any true emotional processing. Nonetheless, if there were ever a situation that warranted magical assistance, I would say that yours is it.”

 

“I am a bit of an extreme case aren’t I?” Hermione doesn’t even notice her joke sinking between them like a lead balloon as she reaches for the parchment in front of her with shaking hands. She can’t quite believe that salvation is just a few short incantations away, so close she can almost taste it. “Will you...will you teach me the spell?”

 

“It would be my pleasure,” Snape replies with what sounds strangely like relief in his tone.

 

* * *

 

The spell is easy enough for Hermione to memorise, something any decent third year would be able to cast without too much fuss. Snape gives her a few pointers on her wandwork, but they’re more polish than any major corrections. Hermione tests the incantation a few times, smiling faintly to herself as her brain obediently wraps itself in cotton, blocking out everything except the gentle hum of nothingness. For the first time in a long while Hermione feels optimistic, like she might actually be able to deal with this awful thing that keeps happening to her in a way that doesn’t leave her a mess for hours afterwards.

 

They’ve taken a break from practicing and are engaged in an interesting discussion on the use of potions versus charms to heal minor wounds when the toy next springs to life, its motions especially vigorous like it can tell she’s been working to subvert its effects.

 

She gasps as the snake head presses up against her inner walls, fist clenching tight around her wand as she shakily raises it to her temple. Snape falls silent as she starts to mutter the incantation in exactly the same way she’s practised all morning.

 

“Sensus Opsepio,” Hermione whispers, her wrist flicking jerkily in the figure of eight movement that is supposed to accompany the words. The familiar sensation of nothingness takes over, and Hermione lets herself exhale in relief.

 

 _“Let me see those big doe eyes of yours,”_ Lucius’ words slip in around the edges of her calm, and Hermione whimpers in distress at the too-familiar words. _“You take pain so very well, has anyone ever told you that before?”_

 

“No!” Hermione protests, flicking her wand frantically as she tries to cast the spell again. “Sensus...Sensus...”

 

 _“And that voice, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone scream as nicely as you do.”_ The silken voice tears through her barriers like they don’t exist, forcing their way into her brain and down her spine.

 

“Sensus Opsepio! Sensus Opsepio!”

 

_“You’ll like my next brother, I think. He’s as pureblood as any of us but his cock would make you swear he’s part giant.”_

 

“No, oh please. Sensus Opse-”

 

 _“By the time we’re done with you, your body will never be the same again._ You’ll _never be the same again.”_

 

“It’s not working,” Hermione sobs in defeat, dropping her wand to the floor as she buries her face in her hands. “It’s too much...I can’t…I can’t hold the incantation.”

 

“Would you allow me to try?” Snape’s calm tone is a sharp counterpart to the racing of her heart, imbued with a surely that Hermione can’t help but gravitate towards.

 

“Yes. Please. Make it stop,” she agrees without thinking. She’ll let the man cast Imperio on her if it will make the spectre of Lucius Malfoy leave her in peace.

 

“Sensus Opsepio,” Snape’s deep, sonorous voice fills her with calm even before the magical nothingness wraps around her like a blanket. His incantation is stronger than even her practice attempts. The silence is blissful, a safe haven that effortlessly protects her against every touch, every taunt, every stab of pain.

 

Her orgasm comes as almost an afterthought, barely registering against the wonderful void that Hermione has found herself floating in. Her body tenses all over, the sensation a complete surprise she isn’t anticipating in the slightest, and then it’s over. Just like that.

 

Her eyes blink open - she doesn’t remember when they closed. Snape is still crouched in front of her, wearing an expression of deep concern. She doesn’t know why he looks so sad, not when everything feels so good right now.

 

“It worked,” she whispers, hearing a lightness in her voice that she hasn’t heard in a long, long time. “It actually worked.”

 

* * *

 

Her joy lasts about half an hour. Maybe less.

 

She’s halfway through a seventeenth century scroll on elvish poisons when it happens. A splash of water on the parchment, blurring the ink before Hermione can cast a hasty _evanesco_. She frowns down at the scroll, wondering where the liquid came from.

 

Another splash, then another. She blinks frantically as she finally realises that it’s coming from her, silent tears that are ruining this priceless manuscript as she sits and does nothing. Her heart clenches and she lets out a loud gasp, thrusting the parchment away from her as she covers her mouth with her hand.

  
Snape looks up from his own research, frowning in concern, and that seems to be the final straw. The sobs come wild and unfiltered after that, Hermione crumpling under the weight of her repressed sorrow as she cries and cries until there’s nothing left inside of her, and then she cries some more for good measure.

 

It hurts. Everything hurts so fucking much.

 

By the time she’s all cried out the elvish scroll is completely ruined, but Snape doesn’t even seem to notice as he wraps a blanket around her shoulders and guides her into one of the more comfortable armchairs in the corner of the room. He summons a tea set from the kitchen, ignoring her half-hearted protests as he fixes them both strong cups before forcing a sizeable teacake into her hand, and then they sit together in silence for the rest of the evening, research abandoned completely.

 

* * *

 

“Maybe was a sort of time-delayed impact,” Hermione theorizes a few hours later, on her fourth cup of heavily-sugared tea and feeling marginally better for it. She’s still curled up in the chair Snape deposited her in, the fluffy blanket still wrapped tightly around her shoulders, but at least she feels grounded enough to discuss her meltdown. “I didn’t let myself react to what was happening while it was ...you know... actually happening, so it hit me all at once when the spell wore off.”

 

Snape hums consideringly from his chair next to her, taking a slow sip of his own tea. “It would certainly explain why Healer Dresden stressed that the charm only be used as a short-term solution. One would imagine the issue was compounded for you as you were presented with additional physical stimulus as well as mental.”

 

Hermione sighs heavily, her free hand coming up to rub gingerly at her temples. She should have known that this was all too good to be true. She feels just as bad as she usually does after one of her _episodes_ , only this time she also has a throbbing headache to boot. Nothing like adding insult to injury, after all.

 

“So I can’t ignore the damn thing, and I can’t block out the memories that come with it.” She has to make a concerted effort to keep her voice steady as she enumerates how completely screwed she is. “And I can’t get it out of me, which means I’m just going to have to learn to live with the constant reminder of...of...” She chokes around the awful words, unable to finish her sentence. She gives up trying in favour of taking a deep, trembling breath. Snape knows what she means, she’s sure of it.

 

“I will go back to Healder Dresden,” Snape says, and Hermione is sure she isn’t imagining the hint of desperation in his tone. “I will ask her to suggest another alternative, I’m sure there are more approaches we can try.”

 

“It won’t help,” Hermione knows that defeatism isn’t a good look on her, but she can’t help it. “The same thing will happen with anything that stops me from dealing with it at the time.” She frowns, her words causing the first tendrils of an idea to start forming in the recesses of her brain.

 

“I know that look,” Snape interrupts her musings, and she snaps her attention back to him. “You’ve got something.”

 

Hermione blushes as the pieces settles into places and she finally realises exactly what that something is. “Oh. Oh no, it’s just a stupid thought,” she quickly backtracks. What on earth had she been thinking?

 

“There are no stupid ideas when it comes to brainstorming, Miss Granger,” Snape’s voice is appropriately reproving in the face of her self-deprecation. “You should know that by now.”

 

Hermione lets her eyes dart up to meet Snape’s, chewing absently on her bottom lip as she turns her idea over in her head. “I mean...we’ve established that when my brain has control it takes me back _there_ ,” she says slowly, choosing her words carefully as she works through her reasoning herself. “I can’t block it out completely, because then this whole shitshow happens.” She waves her hands vaguely at herself to emphasise her point, wondering if she’s really about to suggest what she thinks she’s about to suggest.

 

“So, what I need to do is to give my brain something else to focus on while it’s happening. It can’t be something completely unrelated, because then I’ll never...you know...and the damn thing will go on forever. Which means I have to give it something that meshes with what’s physically happening to me. Something less emotionally devastating. Something that I might actually get some genuine relief from.”

 

There’s a long pause, long enough for Hermione to start to wonder if Snape has actually understood what she’s suggesting.

 

“I take it back.” Snape’s voice is dry as a bone. “Apparently there are stupid ideas.”

 

“Hey!” Hermione’s temper spikes, suddenly feeling a lot more attached to her plan in the face of his scathing dismissal. “Just because the idea makes you uncomfortable-”

 

“To clarify,” Snape interrupts, “you are proposing to construct some form of sexual fantasy for your subconscious to latch onto while the enemy device inside of you forces you to orgasm against your will. Am I correct in my understanding of this _idea_ of yours?”

 

“The orgasming against my will is happening either way, remember?” Hermione snaps back, gripping her mug so hard she feels the handle crack along the seam. “At least this way it might not devastate me emotionally as much as it does physically.”

 

“And how exactly do you plan to maintain this fantasy? Forgive me for being blunt, but you are hardly at the peak of your psychological resilience during these episodes.”

 

Hermione deflates rapidly, all her determination abandoning her in the face of Snape’s intractable logic. He’s right of course, she can barely remember her own name when the damn thing starts up. There’s no way she’ll be able to construct - let alone maintain - a narrative that is in any way strong enough to stop her focus from slipping back to that awful night.

 

“We could cast another memory charm,” she blurts out, throwing out one final lifeline without really considering the implications of what she’s suggesting.

 

Snape’s spine snaps rigid. “You wish _me_ to construct your sexual fantasy?” he practically hisses. Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever heard the man sound so aghast.

 

She means to say no. She really does. She fully intends to backtrack on the whole thing, to go back to their safe but fruitless brainstorming of before.

 

“Yes,” her traitor mouth supplies instead before she can stop it. Her subconscious apparently no longer has any shame. She can’t say she blames it, not when the alternative is what it is. “If I could do it myself I would, but I can’t. It would have to be you.”

 

“It is hardly proper-” Snape begins, but Hermione can’t help her sharp bark of laughter at his protestations.

 

“You and I are somewhat beyond ‘proper’ at this point, don’t you think?” she says bitterly. “You have seen me at my absolute worst. You’ve seen me abused, degraded, torn apart from the inside out.” It’s like a dam has burst inside of her, the words spilling thick and fast as she finally give voice to everything that’s been festering inside of her. “You’ve seen me beg for things no person should ever have to beg for, take things no person should ever have to take. You’ve seen me climax more times than anybody else in this world, and not a single one of those times has been consensual. I am ruined, an empty husk of who I once was and you have been forced to bear witness to every moment of my devastation.” She finally has to pause, gasping down a great gulp of air as she draws a long overdue breath. The rush of oxygen clears her head slightly, and when she continues she’s calmer, quieter.

 

“I know this is asking a lot from you. Too much, really. If I were a decent person I probably wouldn’t ask, but it seems they took my decency when they took the rest of me. So I’m going to ask, even though I know I shouldn’t. Will you help me, please? I can’t do this - any of this - without you.”

 

Snape blinks slowly. Once. Twice. Hermione catches her tongue between her teeth to stop herself from saying anything else. She’s said more than enough already. Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, Snape clears his throat and nods curtly. “Very well, if this truly is the course of action you wish to take, then I will of course endeavour to assist you.”

 

“Wait...seriously?” Hermione blurts out, unable to fully comprehend what she’s hearing.

 

Snape frowns disapprovingly at her. “If you did not honestly mean what you said, then I strongly suggest you recant now.”

 

“No, no I meant it,” Hermione says quickly, realising with no small amount of shock that it’s completely true. She’ll let Snape in her brain, let him spin whatever story he wishes, as long as it stops her from going back there.

 

“I have a stipulation,” Snape continues, and Hermione quickly turns her attention back to the man. “You must present to me the charm you wish to use, and provide proof that there will be no serious or long-term side effects from its usage.”

 

“Done,” Hermione hastily agrees, her mind already turning to the problem he’s set her. Maybe she can use a variant of the false memory charm, or maybe something from the Illusions branch of spellwork...

 

Snape stares at her for another long moment, watching as she silently works through her mental archive of spells and charms. When it becomes apparent that she’s not coming back to him any time soon he nods again. “So be it,” he says, standing up and returning to their usual research table without another word.

 

He ignores her for the rest of the afternoon, but Hermione barely notices as she eagerly gets to work, pulling book after book down off the shelves and scribbling over reams of parchment until there’s ink all over her hands and across one of her cheeks. She’ll write the most comprehensive proof Snape’s ever seen, she promises herself. The man won’t know what’s hit him.

 

* * *

 

“I need to know your proclivities.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Hermione looks up from her notes with a start, completely unprepared for the question.

 

There are two splotches of crimson high on Snape’s cheekbones, the only indication that this isn’t a perfectly normal topic of conversation for him. “If I am to construct a sufficiently appealing experience for you, I need to know what you look for in a partner, where your interests lie.”

 

“Oh,” Hermione says faintly, blushing herself now that she realises what is being asked of her. “Okay.”

 

“If this is too uncomfortable for you, we do not have to continue down this path.” Snape sounds very much like he’s hoping she’ll back down from this harebrained scheme of hers.

 

“No, no it’s okay,” Hermione interrupts determinedly, even though it is uncomfortable. It’s incredibly uncomfortable. She never thought she would be having this conversation, discussing her sexual inclinations with her old Potions teacher. Then again, there are a lot of things that have happened to her in the past few weeks that she never thought would happen, so maybe this is simply her new normal.

 

“Umm...male,” she begins, “Tall, I guess.”

 

“Well that certainly paints a descriptive picture,” Snape replies dryly, and Hermione can’t help shooting him a quick glare in response.

 

“I don’t know, looks were never that important I suppose,” she admits. “I guess I lust after people’s brains more. Or I used to, at least.” It’s been a long, long time since her last hasty encounter; a Ravenclaw she met behind a snoozing portrait in her seventh year. Even before everything that happened to her, her sex drive had been beaten practically into non-existence by her role as a member of the Order.

 

“I shall conjure you someone sufficiently academic then,” Snape says. “Though constructing someone who is your intellectual equal will truly be pushing at the limits of fantasy.”

 

Hermione can’t help smiling at the compliment. She’s found that Snape is infinitely more forthcoming with praise when he can couch it in a dismissal of someone else at the same time.

 

“Can they be kind?” She finds herself asking hesitantly. “I think...they need to be gentle with me.”

 

Snape’s eyes soften, and his hand jerks on the table in front of him, like he wants to extend it towards her. “Of course. Your suitor will treat you with all the care and affection you so rightly deserve.”

 

Hermione feels a lump start to form in her throat, her eyes pricking with tears as she remembers just how uncaring Voldemort’s men had been with her. How they had taken pleasure not just from her body but from her screams of pain. It had been a contest for them, to see how much they could break her. And they had succeeded, in more ways than anyone will ever know.

 

“I...that’s about it, really,” she forces herself to say briskly. “Everything else can be up to you, I don’t care. I mean, I trust you.”

 

She does, she realises as Snape nods and returns to his own literatures. She trusts him more than anyone.

 

* * *

 

Hermione holds her breath as Snape slowly reads through the small stack of parchments in front of him. She’s done good work, she knows she has. The charm’s history, effects and side effects are all laid out clearly, with more than a few examples to prove her work. There’s no reason for Snape to dismiss her efforts, except for the fact that he’s still the same impossible-to-please Potions Master from her childhood.

  
Or at least, she thinks he is. Something’s definitely changed between them since her time at Hogwarts, more than simply the after-effects of their shared ordeal. She wishes she could put her finger on what, though.

 

Eventually Snape gives an appraising hum, and turns his dark-eyed stare on her. “So, you propose to combine a false memory charm with a heightened awareness spell, thus providing you with a realistic fantasy while still being cognizant of your own reality.”

 

“Exactly,” Hermione says eagerly, relieved beyond measure that he actually seems to be considering her proposal. “It’s a relatively straightforward merging, given that both charms have the same magical root. There’s no reason the two won’t work seamlessly together.”

 

Snape hums again, and Hermione bites her tongue to stop her babbling. He already knows all this, it’s written right there on the paper in front of him.

 

“And as the caster of the spell, my role will be that of marionettist rather than marionette - guiding the interactions of your partner without experiencing any of the emotional impact.”

 

“I thought you would prefer it that way,” Hermione explains, feeling embarrassed heat rush to her cheeks as she remembers some of her findings - spells designed for long distance lovers to share erotic fantasies together. She’d moved away from that direction of research rather quickly.

 

“Indeed,” Snape confirms dryly. “And likewise, you would remain completely in control of your own actions for the duration?”

 

“Absolutely,” Hermione says with a small shudder. The alternative is definitely not an option, not even if it’s him doing the controlling.

 

Snape watches her for a long moment, as if trying to detect any hesitation in her. Hermione very pointedly squares her shoulders and stares determinedly back at him. She’s confident in her research; he should be too. Finally Snape gives another hum of acceptance, scooping up her papers and organizing them with a sharp tap against the desk. “Very well,” he says briskly, “teach me this incantation.”

 

Snape is as quick a study as Hermione anticipated, and he picks up the charm with ease. His wandwork is almost breathtaking in its elegance, and Hermione finds herself speechless more than once as she watches him practice.

 

“Shall we perform a test?” Snape asks as he effortlessly mimics Hermione’s own casting.

 

“Hmm?” Hermione has to forcibly drag her attention back to his face. “Oh, yes, that’s a good idea.”

 

They both sit down on the sofa, face to face as Snape levels his wand at her temple.

 

“Close your eyes,” he says, “and try not to to occlude from me. I need you to be willing to let me enter your mind.”

 

His voice continues to hold the same soft timbre as he speaks the incantation, and Hermione feels the room pitch and roll around her. She barely has time to feel disoriented before she’s deposited in a familiar room, with familiar shards of early morning light streaming across the heavy wood table in front of her.

 

Snape appears in her field of vision and silently places a steaming mug of tea in front of her, one eyebrow raised questioningly as he moves to sit on the other side of the kitchen table. It’s so comfortingly familiar Hermione’s heart clenches in longing. If only everything could be this simple.

 

Hermione lifts the cup to her lips, inhaling the heady aroma, and a feeling of calm rushes over her. Her consciousness knows that this isn’t real, it won’t allow her to get lost in false memories, but the comfort is still there. The hope is still there.

 

Her eyes flick up to meet Snape’s and she nods once, the hint of a smile curling against her lips. This is going to work, she knows it is.

 

The room pitches and rolls again, and then she’s back in the Library again. Snape’s eyes are glittering with anticipation, and she knows that he’s come to the same conclusion that she has.

 

“Next time?” she asks hesitantly.

 

“Next time,” Snape agrees without argument.

 

* * *

 

It next happens while they’re all seated for dinner the next day. One minute Hermione is engaged in a lively debate with the twins about the most effective non-lethal way to clear a room, the next white spots are sparking behind her eyes and she has to remember how to draw breath.

 

“Hermione?” Fred asks as she cuts off abruptly, exhaling heavily through her mouth as the toy starts to hum it’s now horribly familiar tune inside of her.

 

“Hmm?” Hermione mumbles absently, sure the room must be able to hear the strain in her voice.

 

“Will you excuse us,” Snape interrupts before Fred’s line of questioning can continue. “I have just remembered that we have a suspension brewing that needs to be checked.” He stands up sharply. “Miss Granger, if you please?”

 

“What? Oh, yes, of course.” She quickly joins him by the door, keeping her body from shaking through sheer force of will. “So sorry, we’ll be back soon,” she manages to stammer out before making a hasty exit towards the relative safety of her bedroom.

 

She only just makes it back to her room, bolting the door firmly behind her and Snape before her legs buckle. She lurches unstably, avoiding hitting the floor only because of Snape’s supporting hand that appears at her elbow.

 

“Steady, Miss Granger,” Snape’s voice is low and soothing as he guides her towards the armchair in the corner of her room, crouching down in front of her as she sits.

 

“Now?” Hermione makes herself ask, her attention still mostly on regulating her breathing.

 

“If that is what you wish.”

 

The toy pulses violently inside of her and Hermione groans, pitching forward and grabbing her knees anxiously. “Yes, please let’s try it. I don’t … I can’t do this again.”

 

“If you wish me to stop at any point, you only have to say the word,” Snape says as he draws his wand. “Likewise, if you appear to be in any form of distress, I will end the spell immediately.”

 

“Ok,” Hermione says shakily, letting her eyes flutter closed as she exhales deeply. Relax, let Snape in. She can do this.

 

She feels the cool tip of Snape’s wand at her temples, and then the world goes fuzzy around the edges, pitching and swirling until she’s deposited in an unfamiliar room.

 

She looks around curiously. The furnishings are luxurious and expensive, the sofa underneath her far more plush than the slightly threadbare chair back in her room. She hears the clink of glasses and looks up to see a stranger approaching with two flutes of champagne.

 

The man is tall, just like she requested, with ashy blonde hair and a jawline that could cut glass. His robes are well-cut and flattering, enhancing his toned physique without being ostentatious. He rather reminds her of the men she and Parvati had once fawned over in the pages of Playwitch, back when she was younger and _much_ more impressionable.

 

His bright blue eyes sparkle as he approaches, a wide, genuine smile on his face. “You look beautiful,” he says as he offers her one of the drinks, his voice soft and melodious.

 

Hermione looks down at herself, surprised to see that she’s wearing finery of a quality she would never be able to afford herself. Her midnight blue robes sparkle with tiny gemstones, catching the low lighting of the room and casting it back like starlight. “Wow,” she says softly, still marvelling at her appearance. “I…that is...you look very handsome yourself.”

 

The man smiles, and joins her on the sofa, clinking their glasses together lightly. “Cheers,” he says, taking a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving her face.

 

Hermione blinks owlishly, feeling somewhat overwhelmed. This is so far outside her realm of experience, she doesn’t know what to do, how to act. She hastily takes a swig of her own drink, hoping that maybe some imaginary bubbles will help her to relax.

 

The man takes both of their glasses and places them down on the coffee table next to them, inching closer to her as he cups her face softly.

 

“You are simply breathtaking,” he says, looking deep into her eyes, before leaning in to kiss her.

 

The man’s lips are smooth, and he moves with care against Hermione’s own. Despite her initial reservations, Hermione finds herself relaxing against his touch, sinking into the chaste kiss. The man hums in approval, and Hermione feels his tongue flick out across her lips, requesting access to deepen the kiss.

 

 _“I don’t even know his name.”_ The thought enters her mind unbidden, and just like that the spell is broken. She jerks backwards with a gasp. She doesn’t know this man. He’s just another stranger who wants something from her, who wants to take her body and make it his.

 

No. No, this can’t be happening again.

 

“Stop!” she exclaims, throwing herself across the other side of the room. The floor pitches and tilts underneath her and the next moment she’s back in her own rooms, her breath coming in great, heavy pants.

 

“Shhh, you’re okay. You’re back,” Snape’s voice is low and soothing, and Hermione latches onto it desperately. She knows this man. This man would never hurt her. She bursts into tears and flings herself at him, fingers scrabbling at the lapels of his frock coat as she buries her face in his shoulder.

 

Snape tenses underneath her, then slowly relaxes. His arms hesitantly come up to wrap around her shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into her back and muttering soft words of comfort as she slowly cries herself to exhaustion, the toy still humming between her legs in bitter resilience of what they just attempted.

 

“Far be it for me to say something so uncouth as I told you so,” Snape finally says, his wry tone letting her know that he’s trying to lighten the mood rather than truly chastise her.

 

“But you told me so,” Hermione completes wetly, her breath still coming in shaky exhales even though she’s no longer crying outright. She doesn’t know what hurts more, the echo of that nameless man’s touch, or the fact that she had been wrong. She still doesn’t quite understand how; she had been so very sure that this would work. “Don’t worry, I’ve well and truly learnt my lesson.”

 

“It brings me no joy to be right,” Snape says. “In this specific instance,” he quickly clarifies when Hermione draws back enough to raise a questioning eyebrow at him.

 

“It almost worked,” Hermione says, a small part of her still desperate to prove she hadn’t been completely misguided in her plan. “For a moment there, it almost worked.”

 

“What was the issue?” Snape asks, sounding genuinely curious as he conjures up a white linen handkerchief to wipe the wetness from her cheeks.

 

“He was a stranger,” Hermione says, taking a deep breath as Snape’s fingers stroke across her cheekbones. “I’ve had enough of strangers touching me for many, many lifetimes.”

 

Snape’s expression darkens, but his hands remain gentle as he wipes away the last of her tears. “I had not considered that angle.”

 

“Neither had I,” Hermione admits ruefully. “It didn’t even occur to me that it might be an issue...until it was.”

 

The toy pulses sharply inside of her, cruelly reminding her that it’s not finished with her yet, and Hermione sobs in defeat, cupping her head in her hands. “One day,” she whispers, more to herself than Snape. “Would it really be too much to ask for one sodding day off?”

 

“Would you like me to stay with you?”

 

Hermione sighs, sitting up straight again and setting her jaw determinedly. “Thank you, but I think this time I need to be alone.”

 

Snape nods soberly, rising gracefully to standing. “If you would like to continue working afterwards, I shall be in the library.”

 

“I’ll be along in a bit,” Hermione says, trying and failing to accompany her words with a smile.

 

Snape nods and makes his way over to the bedroom door. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, turning back towards Hermione with a look of fierce determination. “This may have not yielded the results you hoped for, but I swear to you, we will find a solution.”

 

“Of course we will,” Hermione says, not even trying to pretend that she’s not lying through her teeth.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it looks like I lost a few readers with my last chapter! Sorry to everyone for whom this got too much, I realize this is a pretty intense story and I understand that the direction I'm going might not be to everyone's taste. To everyone who is still with me, thank you, you're awesome, and promise this is the last rough chapter before things start to take a turn for the better - there's light at the end of the tunnel I swear!

“Why don’t we just slice it off?  _ Diffindo _ can cut through pretty much anything.” Hermione throws the scroll she’s been reading back onto the table with a disappointed growl. Nothing. Inches and inches of useless nothing.

 

Snape sighs and puts down his own book far more gently, rubbing wearily at the bridge of his nose. “ _ Diffindo _ is a blunt tool, you would be just as likely to slice off one of your legs.” 

 

“What about surgical magic then? Maybe Eloise knows a spell that’s more precise?”

 

“By and large the magical community abandoned surgical endeavours when medicinal potions and charms proved to be equally effective. I believe progress stalled some time around the sixteenth century.” 

 

“Of course it did.” Hermione can’t help rolling her eyes at this particular revelation. She loves the magical world, truly she does, but sometimes it can be so astoundingly backwards. “Okay, what about muggle surgery? I have it on reasonable authority that their procedures are  _ slightly _ more advanced than leeches and trepanning.”

 

“Assuming for a moment that you find some way to get a muggle doctor on board without finding yourself in breach of the International Statute of Secrecy,” Snape replies in a tone that makes it clear he thinks she’s being willfully ridiculous, “Healer Dresden’s report showed that the binding magic has penetrated through multiple layers of your flesh. It would be impossible to cut the implement away without causing permanent disfigurement.”

 

“Seems like a small price to pay to get this damn thing out of me,” Hermione retorts defiantly even as her legs instinctively slam shut in horror.

 

“No, it’s too much of a risk. We will find a better solution.”

 

“You don’t get to decide this.” She can feel her temper start to flare as stress and exhaustion wind their familiar tune around her. “This is my body we’re talking about, and if I want to try it then-”

 

“I  _ said _ , I will find a better solution.” Snape’s voice is as hard as ice, and for the first time Hermione sees a glimpse of the man who managed to convince Voldemort of his loyalty for so long. 

 

“Well then you had better find something fucking soon,” Hermione immediately retorts, attacking his ice with her own fiery rage, “because I’m telling you now, there’s only so much more of this I can take before I start resorting to  _ really _ drastic measures.”

 

She means it too, she’s only a little surprised to find as she and Snape silently glare at one another. She’ll willingly throw herself at the mercy of the Dark Arts if stops this relentless, merciless attack on her person and her soul.

 

Finally Snape deflates with a heavy sigh, one hand coming up to massage at his temples. “Forgive me,” he says tiredly, eyes dropping to focus the table in front of him. “My words were out of line.”

 

“It’s okay,” Hermione immediately forgives him. “You’re tired, we both are. We’ve been going at this nonstop for days and we’re still no closer to finding anything useful.”

 

Snape grunts his acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything further. With a sigh Hermione  _ accios _ a few books on ancient magi-surgery practices. Even if the magical world has mostly  abandoned the art, there might still be something of value to be found in the historical texts.

 

“What if it were somebody you knew?”

 

Hermione looks up in surprise, confused by the sudden change in conversation. “What do you mean?” she asks.

 

Snape’s mouth is twisted in an expression of distaste, but his voice is perfectly even as he speaks. “The limitation of our previous experiment was that you did not feel comfortable being intimate with a stranger. If we were to adjust the parameters so that you are presented with a familiar face, would that resolve the issue?”

 

Hermione winces and scrubs at her face in embarrassment. She’s been trying very hard to forget about her misguided sex-fantasy plan, she definitely doesn’t need Snape bringing it up again. “I know I made a mistake before, you don’t need to rub it in.”

 

“That is far from my intent,” Snape sounds surprisingly genuine. “I have been giving your theory some thought, and I believe you may have been on the right track.”

 

“Yes, because it worked so well the last time.” Hermione barely resists glaring at the man again; she’s never been particularly fond of addressing her failings, which seems to be exactly what Snape is trying to do right now.

 

“At this point in time, working within the device’s remit, rather than against it, seems to be the only plausible way to counteract its effects,” Snape continues, apparently deciding to ignore Hermione’s self-deprecation entirely. “Our experiments have shown that you cannot ignore it’s advances, or block them out completely. Ergo the only solution is to give it what it wants, but on your terms.”

 

“My terms involve upgrading my partner to a special guest star?” She knows she just told him that she was willing to try more extreme approaches, but this wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.

 

“It wouldn’t have to be a personal acquaintance necessarily,” Snape counters. “Somebody you’ve met in passing, or a public figure perhaps? Anybody you would feel more comfortable being intimate with.”

 

Hermione sighs heavily; this whole conversation has taken a turn for the seriously surreal. “I don’t lust after people I don’t know. I don’t lust after people I  _ do _ know, for that matter.”

 

“Nobody at all?” Snape sounds genuinely surprised. “Not even Messrs Potter and Weasley? For reasons that still escape me, you appear to hold both men in inordinately high regard.”

 

Hermione’s snort of laughter has a tinge of hysteria to it. “Especially not them. We grew up together, they’re like my brothers.”

 

“Then what about one of the other Weasley men? Both of the twins are able to carry a reasonably intellectual conversation nowadays - don’t look so surprised, contrary to popular belief I am in fact able to give credit where credit is due.” He narrows his eyes at Hermione as she bites down on her bottom lip to stifle a grin. If anybody had told her six months ago that Professor Snape would be trying to convince  _ her _ of Fred and George’s merits...

 

“I’m afraid I don’t have an interest in any Weasley, male or otherwise,” she counters when she finally has herself under control again. “Sorry to disappoint.”

 

“A celebrity figure then? I hear the lead singer of the Weird Sisters has the market cornered on tall, dark and handsome.”  

 

“Why are you pushing so hard for this?” Hermione counters, her voice taking on a bitter edge as the conversation swiftly tips from funny to frustrating. Can’t he understand that there’s nobody she can even remotely envisage being intimate with, nobody except…

 

“There must be somebody. By your own acknowledgment, you were not previously adverse to relations-”

 

“You!” The admission slips past her lips before she can catch it and banish it back to the recesses of her subconscious where it belongs.

 

Snape’s eyes widen and he rears back sharply, expression twisting into a scowl. “You are mocking me,” he practically hisses.

 

“No!” Hermione feels a little like she’s in freefall in the wake of her truly inopportune revelation. “No. I would never do that to you.”

 

“Then you think I require some form of compensation for assisting you. I can assure you-”

 

“No,” Hermione repeats, her heart pounding against her ribcage. “No, that’s not it at all. Look, I’m sorry. I’m being silly. Just forget I said anything, okay?”

 

Snape frowns at her, his expression guarded and uncertain. “I do not understand,” he eventually admits.

 

Hermione sighs heavily, realising that there’s no taking back what has already been said. She might be willing to lie to herself, but she won’t lie to him. 

 

“You asked me who I would want to … to be intimate with,” she says, dropping her eyes to the table so she doesn’t have to meet Snape’s piercing gaze as she speaks. “The answer is nobody; the idea of being touched right now right now fills me with such dread I can’t even put it into words.” She pauses, wondering how best to phrase this without it sounding like a proposition. “But if there were somebody who I might be willing to try with...the only person I can even entertain the idea of, is you.”

 

Silence follows her admission, deep and cloying, and when Hermione chances a look up at Snape he’s still staring at her, wide-eyed and shocked. “Why?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why do you think you might be comfortable with me when you cannot imagine being with anyone else?”

 

Hermione huffs out a sharp laugh. “Who else would there be?” she says, wondering why this even needs to be said out loud. Surely their interactions over the past few weeks speak far more eloquently than anything she says now. “You’re the only person I ever want to spend any time with any more. And yes, I know I’ve gotten better at being around others lately, but it’s still a chore. With you it’s easy.”

 

Snape frowns, his expression turning disbelieving again. “I am far from an easy man to be around.”

 

“Not to me,” Hermione says simply. “I like spending time with you. I like researching with you, and having lunch with you, and making tea for you. The time we spend together is the only bright spot in a world that seems to take great pleasure in chewing me up and spitting me out nowadays. Why wouldn't I want more of that?”

 

“I don’t-” Snape’s voice is hesitant, and with a sudden sinking feeling Hermione realises she’s about to be a hit with a rejection that she’s not in the least bit ready to hear.

 

“But it’s okay, I promise you I won’t act on my...my emotions,” she says hurriedly before he can complete his sentence, squashing down the hurt that surges irrationally in her chest. She only acknowledged her own feelings moments ago, why on earth should she expect him to feel in any way the same? 

 

“Miss Granger-”

 

“But now you see now why retrying the memory spell is a terrible idea. I couldn’t possibly ask...that...of you,” she barrels onwards, not letting Snape get a word in edgeways lest he says something she truly won’t be able to recover from. “So let’s get back to this research shall we? I really think we’re on the cusp of a breakthrough.”

 

Snape thankfully doesn’t try to say anything more after that, and for a long while there’s silence between them. Hermione determinedly throws herself back into her research to avoid her thoughts straying back to the Hippogriff in the room. She’ll address this revelation of hers later, she tells herself, some time when she’s not in the same room as the object of her newfound affection.

 

“How-” Snape’s voice is strained, and when Hermione looks back up at him she has the horrible feeling that his gaze has remained on her this whole time. “How would you imagine it playing out?”

 

Hermione rolls her eyes and returns her attention back to her book. She refuses to encourage this ridiculous notion of his.

 

“Schoolgirl fantasies of detention taking an interesting turn, perhaps?”

 

“No!” Hermione can’t help exclaiming, her desire to ignore him overridden by her need to assure him that she didn’t harbour any untoward feelings for him while still his student. She drops her quill on the desk with a clatter, turning her wide-eyed stare on him, and is somewhat relieved to see that he looks thoroughly un-amused by his own suggestion. “The teacher-student relationship is sacrosanct. I would never-”

 

Snape holds up his hand to quell her vehement denial, his expression completely neutral once more. “There is no shame in fantasies, Miss Granger. If you tell me what interests you then perhaps I can be of service. If Hogwarts is too taboo a setting, then perhaps a conference mixer would be more appropriate?”

 

“I-” The image comes to her without prompting - her riding the high of her first major presentation, him an esteemed member of the Potions Masters’ Guild complimenting her on her groundbreaking work - “No...No!” she shakes her head roughly, chastising her traitor brain for even considering the suggestion. “I have already asked too much of you. I cannot, I  _ will not  _ ask you to prostitute yourself - or your mental image - just to prevent me from experiencing some minor discomfort.”

 

“One would hardly call what you endure minor discomfort,” Snape retorts. “I am telling you I am willing to assist you, so why would you deny yourself?”

 

“This conversation is over.” Hermione sweeps the three closest books into her arms and stands up abruptly. “This monstrosity forces me into sexual situations time and time again against my will. I refuse to let it do the same to you.” It feels like her anger is surrounding her like an electric storm, her magic sparking and hissing just underneath her skin. How _ dare he _ , how dare he present her with an option she’s morally obligated to reject. She didn’t think he was intentionally cruel like this. Not any more.

 

“Hermione, please.” It’s only the use of her first name that stops her from storming out of the room in righteous fury. The word sounds foreign coming from Snape’s lips, almost illicit. Without warning a shiver runs down her spine, and for the first time in what feels like forever she feels a frisson of something that isn’t completely unpleasant.

 

“Please,” Snape repeats, and Hermione finds herself wishing he would say her name again along with the plea. “Understand that I would never try and coerce you into something you find discomforting, but I cannot abide by the idea that you might reject this proposal out of hand simply because you feel bound by some mistaken notions of propriety.” He pauses, and Hermione is treated to one of the wry grins he apparently saves just for her. “As you said yourself not too long ago, you and I are well past the bounds of what is considered ‘proper’, are we not?”

 

“I just...I can’t ask you to do this for me,” Hermione says, the words little more than whisper on her lips.

 

“Except you’re not asking, I’m offering,” Snape replies, in the same tone he uses to dismiss her more outlandish theoretical arguments. “I assure you, the difference is immense.” When Hermione simply frowns at him he sighs heavily, all the fight suddenly drained from him. The sudden change in demeanor makes Hermione’s heart ache. ”You don’t have to decide now. Just promise me you will take the time to consider it, okay?”

 

“I- Yes, okay,” Hermione’s traitor mouth says before she can stop it, but Snape’s face instantly morphs into something that could almost be called a genuine smile, and somehow she can’t bring herself to regret her answer.

 

* * *

 

Hermione doesn’t sleep well that night, but for once her thoughts are on the present rather than the past. Now that her brain has finally acknowledged her heart’s feelings, she can’t believe she didn’t realise earlier that she’s been steadily falling for her stoic ex-professor. It’s something that has been developing for a good long while, she’s forced to admit as she thinks back over their interactions in past few months, since the time of innocent tea brewing and less-innocent book exchanges. Since before everything around them went well and truly to shit. 

 

Isn’t that a revelation and a half?

 

And if course, as if that hadn’t been enough stress all on its own, for some reason something inside of her had decided that it would be a good idea to actually  _ tell _ Snape of her newfound feelings. She groans and half-heartedly tries to smother herself with her pillow, feeling the embarrassment lodge thick and suffocating in her chest. What on earth had she been thinking?

 

Now the man is offering to - what? - let her use him as a masterbatory aid? There’s so much wrong with that thought that Hermione doesn’t even know where to start. Even completely putting aside the very real possibility that she’ll react just as badly this time as with their first attempt - with the added risk of her starting to associate her ordeal with the one person she currently feels safe with - Hermione hates the idea that Snape apparently holds himself in so little self-esteem that he’d willingly offer his image, his  _ essence _ , to somebody he has no emotional attachment to, simply because he feels obligated. 

 

There are a hundred reasons for her to walk away from this scheme so harebrained it would make even the twins think twice. She knows she should return in the morning and politely decline his kind offer, for both their sakes, but she also knows she’s not going to.

 

There are a hundred reasons for her to say no and only one to say yes, but it’s that one reason that sticks in her brain, and lulls her into the first nightmare-free sleep she’s had in a good long while.

 

Maybe he’s not offering solely out of obligation. Maybe she’s not the only one feeling this unfamiliar spark between them. Maybe, just maybe, this is an opportunity for them both to finally start to heal.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up the next morning with her subconscious having seemingly made the decision for her while she slept; the uncertainty of the day before replaced with clear, level-headed determination. She heads to the library filled with a sense of purpose she hasn’t felt in far too long. For better or for worse, they have a plan. Even it ends up being a complete and unmitigated disaster, her years adventuring with Harry and Ron have taught her that a bad plan is always better than no plan at all. 

 

It takes her the better part of a week to inform Snape of the plan, of course.

 

They still meet every day to research, spending long hours in each other’s company, but Snape seems to be making good on his word to not pressure her into making a decision, and makes a point of keeping their investigations strictly Order related.

 

Hermione, for her part, can’t seem to make the words form. Every time she opens her mouth to broach the topic all rational thought seems to abandon her, leaving her with nothing but a garbled mess of disconnected thoughts that won’t form sentences no matter how hard she tries. Because really, what exactly is she supposed to say to the man?  _ “I’ve thought about it and I really would like to orgasm to your image rather than the nightmares my brain can’t seem to shake, so if you could spell me up something fun and sexy that would be absolutely delightful.”  _

 

Ridiculous. She can do better.

 

The snake doesn’t give her any sort of break to sort out her feelings, of course. It still surges to life with depressingly regular irregularity, leaving her broken and panting as Snape talks her through the aftershocks and pointedly doesn’t mention his proposal. The sensations that come with her attacks are still just as horrific; time and repetition doing absolutely nothing to lessen the gut-churning fear she still feels whenever her brain conjures up a chorus of Death Eater laughter, the phantom spikes of pain that course up her spine as she relives being forcibly penetrated no less unbearable.

 

She holds out for a full four days, convincing herself that given enough time she’ll find the perfect phrasing, but on the fifth day she finally breaks.

 

“Next time, cast the charm,” she gasps, her voice little more than a whisper as she comes down from a particularly bad encounter. The red of Voldemort’s eyes is a bright streak across her brain, just a few shades lighter than that of her own blood. It feels like it’s everywhere; coating her skin, sliding down the backs of her legs, smeared in a tacky handprint across one of her breasts. 

 

Gryffindor Red used to be her favorite color, now she’ll never be able to look at the shade without being reminded of that night.

 

“Are you sure?” Snape asks from his now-familiar position crouched in front of her, his eyes glittering with concern.

 

“I can’t do this again,” Hermione replies, her voice breaking around the absolute truth of her statement. She’s reached her limit, her sanity won’t survive another round, she’s sure of it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for asking this of you. I’m sorry for not being stronger-”

 

“Shh, it’s okay. You have nothing to apologise for,” Snape’s calm words are a gentle balm against the anguish that is starting to build in her chest. “You have survived, you continue to survive. I have never known a stronger soul than yours, Miss Granger, but even the strongest of us need assistance sometimes.”

 

“And if it doesn’t work?” Hermione can’t help but ask, even though a large part of her is scared to hear the answer.

 

“Then we shall try something else,” Snape replies, like it really is that simple. Perhaps it is.

 

Hermione takes a deep, shuddering breath, pulling what’s left of her broken and tattered soul back inside of her. “Okay. Next time, let’s try it,” she says, making sure to meet Snape’s gaze as she speaks.

 

“Very well,” Snape simply says, and promptly guides them back to the far safer topic of venoms and their antidotes.

 

* * *

 

“Do I have your consent?” Snape asks very seriously as he draws his wand and seats himself next to Hermione on the sofa. He rolls up his sleeves but pointedly doesn’t start to move his wand until she replies.

 

“Yes, I’m ready,” Hermione says, already closing her eyes. The baseplate of the toy is humming between her legs, stroking her clit to distraction. “Now, please,” she begs, feeling the memories start to envelop her, start to tug her under. “Please, do it now.”

 

She feels cool press of wood against her temples, and the room dips and lurches just like last time. This time when she surfaces, though, she’s in her own room, already in bed and wearing a light cotton nightdress. The lights are dimmed low, small flames crackling in each of the wall brackets.

 

“Are you comfortable?” An arm snakes around her waist and a chin hooks over her shoulder, Snape’s familiar low drawl whispering in her ear. She instinctively leans back into the warmth of the body behind her, feeling an unexpected thrill as her back makes contact with firm muscle.

 

“Is that you?” Hermione can’t help asking, unable to see much more than the profile of Snape’s nose out of the corner of her vision.

 

“It’s me,” Snape confirms, the hand across her waist stroking soothing patterns into her ribs as his other hand slides down beneath the duvet, tracing feather light along her thigh. “Now relax, and let me take care of you.”

 

Hermione lets her eyes flutter closed, exhaling slowly and steadily as she forces her body to relax. She trusts this voice, trusts this man. Nothing bad will happen to her while she’s here.

 

Both sets of fingers do nothing more than draw patterns against her skin for a good long while, until Hermione no longer has to consciously think about being relaxed and simply is. Her whole body goes lax and pliant in Snape’s firm embrace, a wave of unexpected calm washing over her.

 

The hand underneath the duvet creeps slightly higher, pausing on her hip bone. “May I?” Snape asks, and Hermione knows the hand won’t go any further until she gives it permission.

 

“Yes.” The word is a breathy exhale on her lips, her chest suddenly filled with a desire she didn’t know existed inside of her any more. She can feel the heat starting to build in her core, and for once it’s pure and untainted.

 

She feels lips press softly against the column of her neck, so light she almost thinks she imagined it, and then the hand between her legs starts to slide higher. Slowly, inch by inch, giving her ample opportunity to change her mind if decides she doesn’t want this after all.

 

She wants this, in a way she had forgotten it was possible to want.

 

It’s only when she feels the slightly rough pads of his fingertips against her clit that she realises that in this memory her body is free of the snake, and for a sharp, uncomfortable moment Hermione is reminded of exactly where she is and exactly why she’s doing this. Her entire body tenses up, and the body behind her freezes along with her.

 

“Are you okay?” Snape asks, his voice still that sensuous whisper against her ear, and Hermione determinedly forces her muscles to loosen. 

 

“Yes, sorry. I just didn’t realise  _ it _ would be gone,” she admits, forcing herself to laugh lightly. “So stupid of me.”

 

“You are far from stupid, Hermione,” Snape croons into her ear, his hand starting to rub slow, lazy circles against her clit, and Hermione can’t quite work out if it’s his actions or his use of her first name that sense sparks shooting up her spine. “You are one of the brightest witches I’ve ever known.”

 

“Brightest witch of her age,” Hermione repeats dutifully, the phrase having lost all meaning with how often she heard it at school.

 

“Brightest witch of  _ any _ age,” Snape corrects, voice taking on a slightly teasing lilt as his hand speeds up. “One might even say brightest mind in the wizarding word, excluding myself of course.”

 

“Of course,” Hermione can feel the smile tug at her lips, and she lets her head tip back onto Snape’s shoulder. “But it’s only a matter of time.”

 

“I relish the challenge,” Snape slips a single finger inside of her, using his thumb to continue his attentions on her clit, and Hermione gasps. 

 

“Oh,  _ Severus _ ,” she moans, arching her back as she thrusts her hips forward, seeking out more. 

 

She thinks she hears a hitching of breath from behind her, but Severus’ voice is as steady as ever when he next speaks. “Does that feel good?” 

 

“So good. Merlin, I had forgotten…”

 

“Let yourself feel good, Hermione.”

 

“I... oh gods...  _ fuck _ .”

 

“Yes, just like that.”

 

“Fuck...I’m going to...I can’t…”

 

“I’m here, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”

 

Her orgasm hits fast and ferocious, coursing through her veins like Fiendfyre. It’s hot, and sharp, and pure, and seems to burn through every negative thought still valiantly fighting for purchase in her brain. Her mouth opens on a silent scream, her whole body tensing as her climax takes her over one cell at a time, leaving her lax and panting in Severus’ arms.

 

There’s not a single Death Eater in her head, not one invader coming to take this moment of peace away from her. It feels so good she thinks she might cry.

 

“I...oh Merlin,” Hermione pants, turning her face to nuzzle into the side of Severus’ neck. She wants to be close to him, wants more of him. 

 

“Was that...acceptable?” For the first time the voice in her ear sounds hesitant, and Hermione can’t help the slightly delirious bubble of laughter that bursts out of her.

 

“Acceptable? Exceeded Expectations. Outstanding.” She shimmies in his grip, trying to turn around. All of a sudden it’s completely unacceptable that she can’t see him. She wants to touch him. Hold him. Kiss him.

 

The room lurches and dissolves around her, and Hermione blinks her eyes open to find herself sitting on the sofa once more, facing the man who has just given her so much.

 

_ Kiss him.  _ Her last thought from the memory rings in her ears, and before she can think about what she’s doing she’s leaning forward, pressing her lips lightly to his.

 

Time freezes. The world stops spinning on its axis just long enough for Hermione’s brain to catch up to what her stupid, traitorous body has done, and then starts up again in triple time to make up for it.

 

Severus jerks away from her, eyes widening in shock. His hand comes up to touch his lips disbelievingly, then he springs off the sofa faster than Hermione has ever seen him move.

 

“Wait-” Hermione starts, feeling the panic start to mount in her chest as she finally starts to comprehend what a monumental mistake she’s just made, but Severus holds up his hand to silence her.

 

“I-” he begins, then shakes his head roughly as if to clear it of unwanted thoughts. “Forgive me,” he says instead, giving her one last heartbroken look before turning and sweeping out of the room.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who left such lovely comments on the last chapter, I read (and reread) and treasure each and every one! I hope you find this chapter at least a little satisfying!

Hermione feels awful. She still can’t quite believe how monumentally foolish she’s been. After everything Severus has done for her, everything he’s offered and sacrificed, she goes ahead and repays his kindness by doing _that_.

 

She knows he harbors no romantic feelings towards her, he’s made that abundantly clear. And yet she’d gone ahead and forced herself on him anyway. She’s no better than the men who assaulted her. It makes her sick every time she thinks about it.

 

She’d immediately tried to apologise, frantically running after him out of the library, but the man had apparently fled not just the room but the entire house. Hermione doesn't know when he finally returned to Grimmauld Place, but he’s been making himself scarce ever since. The first time Hermione arrived at nine am sharp to an empty library it had felt like a part of her heart had been torn out and thrown away. She still doesn’t quite know how to get it back.

 

She’s tried knocking on his door a few times, only just stopping herself from calling out to him through the heavy door. It’s only the idea of causing him more pain that stops her. As much as she’s desperate to apologise, to throw herself at his feet and beg for forgiveness, she knows Severus would hate the idea of her airing their grievances in public.

 

The snake, seemingly aware of just how close they’d come to negating its effects, attacks her with a renewed sense of purpose. Every time it surges to life a bit more of Hermione’s soul withers and dies, knowing that she has to endure its advances alone because of her own stupid actions. Part of her brain insists that this must be her punishment for what she did, and she can’t find it in herself to argue.

 

A week later finds Hermione sitting dejectedly in the kitchen, drinking a cup of lukewarm tea without really tasting it. She’s run through a thousand scenarios in her head and she still has no idea what to do, how to make this right.

 

Brightest mind in the wizarding world, indeed.

 

Movement out of the corner of her eye draws her attention, and she looks up with a start to find the object of her thoughts standing in the doorway, as if he hasn’t been practically invisible for the better part of a week.

 

Severus looks about as bad as she feels, the dark circles under his eyes making his sharp cheekbones look even more pronounced. The two of them stare at each other in silence for a long moment, Hermione’s brain short circuiting over the fact that he’s actually here, in the same room as her. Everything she’s wanted to say to the man suddenly escapes her, but she opens her mouth anyway because she has to say something, _anything_.

 

Severus hold up a hand, cutting her off before she can even start. “Minerva has called an emergency meeting,” he says, voice completely devoid of all emotion. “We are to gather in the dining room immediately.”

 

“Oh...right, of course,” Hermione tries not to let her heart sink at the realisation that he’s only here as a messenger, not to actually talk to her. “I’ll head there right now.”

 

Severus nods and immediately turns to leave, and panic grips Hermione at the idea that she might have missed her chance to make amends. “Wait!” she calls out, chair scraping sharply against the floor as she hurriedly stands.

 

Severus pauses, and slowly turns back towards her. His expression is one of absolute anguish, and Hermione’s self-disgust multiplies ten-fold at the idea that she is the cause of his pain.

 

“Not now,” Severus practically whispers. “I beg of you, not now.”

 

Hermione’s heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces as he sweeps from the room without letting her respond.

 

* * *

 

The atmosphere is uncertain as Hermione slips into the dining room, taking her usual place at the far end of the long table between Ron and Harry. Severus is already seated across from her, and it takes all of Hermione’s willpower not to try and catch his gaze. Almost the entirety of the Order is present, every seat filled as they collectively hold their breath waiting for whatever news is important enough to call an emergency meeting.

 

McGonagall stands at the head of the table, expression severe as she surveys the room. “I have received word,” she begins once everyone is seated. “You-Know-Who and his followers are planning an attack on the ministry offices in Cardiff. Tonight.”

 

Gasps and murmurs fill the room, and Hermione exchanges worries glances with Ron and Harry on either side of her. There have been a number of scuffles and skirmishes in the past few months, but it’s been a while since Voldemort has mounted a large scale attack.

 

“Where did this information come from?” Arthur asks, hand tightening worriedly around Molly’s next to him.

 

“A trusted source,” McGonagall replies tersely. “Suffice to say I would not bring it to you if I was not convinced of its authenticity.”

 

Her response causes another round of anxious murmurs. They all know that the Order has spies in a variety of unsavory places, but to hear such extreme news without being able to validate its source is worrying, to say the least.

 

“So what’s the plan?” Harry eventually says, lending his silent seal of approval to the information. “Do we launch a counter attack?”

 

“I believe we received this information in time, yes,” McGonagall replies. “I have already reached out to the Welsh Minister, who has agreed to let us position troops around the targeted buildings, and offered us any resources we might need.” She pauses, looking seriously over the tops of her glasses. “Our source says that a number of high-ranking Death Eaters will be leading the attack, so we have an opportunity here to take out a sizeable number of You-Know-Who’s inner circle, if we do this right.”

 

The rumblings around the table turn from concerned to eager at this revelation. They’ve been running defence for so long now; it’s about time they have the opportunity to do some serious damage of their own. Talk quickly turns to strategy as they collectively determine the best plan of attack.

 

“Ron, Hermione and I will be part of the first wave,” Harry says firmly. “I’m always a good distraction.”

 

Ron and Hermione nod in agreement. Past experience has shown that the enemy will always fall over themselves trying to get at the ‘Chosen One’, making it all too easy for the two of them to pick them off one by one.

 

“No.” Severus's voice rings snarp and clear throughout the room, the ice in his tone killing all other conversation in its tracks.

 

“Excuse me?” Ron snaps, “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

 

“You cannot be on the front lines, it is too dangerous,” Severus ignores Ron completely and instead talks directly to Hermione, who can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. Where on earth has this ridiculously inappropriate protective streak come from, and why now of all times?

 

“Nonsense,” she bristles, crossing her arms defiantly. “Where Harry goes, we go.”

 

“Damn straight,” Ron agrees, nodding his head almost violently.

 

“Use your head, woman,” Severus snaps angrily, sounding like he genuinely thinks _she’s_ being the unreasonable one here. “Given your current condition, if you put yourself in front of the enemy you will only be a liability, both to yourself and those around you.”

 

Oh... _oh_. Hermione’s face flames in mortification as she finally understands what he means. She’ll be facing off against the men who attacked her, and she has no absolutely idea how she’ll react. If she freezes she won’t just be putting herself in danger, she’ll be putting everyone around her at risk as well. And if that doesn’t put her out of commision, then the thing between her legs certainly will. Merlin only knows what will happen if it starts up on the battlefield.

 

Stunned silence falls across the table in the wake of their heated exchange. Hermione can see Ron’s head whipping between her and Severus, brow furrowed as he puts two and two together and apparently reaches five.

 

“You bastard!” he suddenly shouts, springing out of his chair and levelling his wand at Severus. “You knocked her up, didn’t you?”

 

Hermione squeaks in shock, turning in horror towards her friend. “Ron!”

 

“We’ve all seen how close you two have gotten recently, don’t lie.” Ron’s whole body is practically shaking in anger, but his wand arm is perfectly steady as he points it directly at Severus's chest. “Not wizard enough to keep it wrapped, huh?”

 

“Ronald!” Hermione exclaims again, unsure whether to be embarrassed or furious. “Severus and I-”

 

“Oh, so it’s _Severus_ now, is it?” Ron sounds completely vindicated. “Admit it, you two fucked and now you’re pregnant with his demon spawn.”

 

It’s all too much for Hermione, as she gives a hysterical sob and buries her face in her arms on the table. She can’t believe this is actually happening to her, in front of the entirety of the Order, no less.

 

“Weasley. As usual, you are entirely incorrect,” Severus's voice is so cold Hermione feels a chill run down her spine. “My relationship with Miss Granger is nothing but professional, I assure you.”

 

_Apart from when I throw myself at him like a lovesick fool._ Hermione thinks almost deliriously to herself, still hiding her face in her hands. Maybe if she ignores everything she’ll wake up to find this is just another one of her awful nightmares.

 

“So...you’re not pregnant?” Ron finally sounds less sure of himself as he direct the question at her, and Hermione is forced to straighten back up so she can answer him.

 

“I promise you Ron, there is absolutely no way I could possibly be,” Hermione replies firmly. Voldemort’s hideous voice rings in her ears - “ _You know how I despise the idea of mudbloods breeding_ ” - and she bites down hard on her tongue to stop herself from visibly flinching.

 

“Then...then what’s this condition he’s talking about?” Ron sounds so confused, so concerned, and Hermione has absolutely no way to answer that without spilling all of the secrets she’s tried so desperately to keep.

 

“Miss Granger is still experiencing some side effects from her time at the Dark Lord’s hands,” Severus replies smoothly, and Hermione can’t help throwing a grateful glance his way. “The healers at St Mungo’s are confident that there are no permanent repercussions, but as of yet they have not cleared her for active field duty.”

 

Ron immediately looks abashed. “Is that true?” he asks, sounding like he almost hopes she’ll say she is pregnant after all.

 

“I didn’t want to admit it, but yes,” she says, keeping her gaze fixed on the table in front of her. “They think I’ll be back in peak condition in a few weeks, but I’m not quite there yet.”

 

“Fuck ‘mione I …. why didn’t you just say that, then?” Ron whines, slumping back in his chair and crossing his arms across his chest, the tips of his ears flushing pink with embarrassment at having made such a scene.

 

Hermione pats his arm gingerly, “I’m sorry, I should have told you,” she says, trying to assuage the guilt of lying to him by soothing his bruised ego. “I’ve just...I’ve just been trying to put the whole thing behind me.”

 

“I believe Miss Granger would be well suited to running reconnaissance for this mission,” Severus interjects, directing the conversation away from Ron’s outburst and back towards planning. “There will be a number of moving parts to this attack, and we shall need somebody to coordinate our efforts in real time.”

 

“This will be the perfect opportunity to try out our communication gems,” George exclaims from the other end of the table, clapping his hands together excitedly. “Hermione already knows how to operate them, so that’s perfect.”

 

“I can definitely do that,” Hermione quickly agrees, breathing a sigh of relief as the conversation in the room turns back to strategy and away from her and the state of her uterus.

 

“You two will be alright without me out there?” she quietly asks Ron and Harry. It feels so very strange, the idea of not being at their side, fighting together like they have done so many times in the past.

 

Harry loops an arm around her shoulder, hugging her gently. “We’ll hold the fort until you can join us again, don’t worry.”

 

* * *

 

“Ron, Harry, keep an eye on your right. Three wands incoming.”  Hermione’s left hand sweeps across the array of gems in front of her, each one assigned a different color to represent a different Order member. Her wand dances in her other hand, controlling the topographical map projected on the wall. “Tonks, fall back and regroup with Arthur and Molly, they’re looking a bit outnumbered.”

 

Her eyes scan the map, little dots of Death Eater red squaring off against Order green across the board. It’s been a long, tense battle, but it looks like the tide is starting to finally turn in their favour.

 

“Everyone, start to push forward towards the treeline,” she broadcasts through every gem at once, knowing her voice will be heard in Order ears but not the enemy’s. Fred and George really do deserve some kind of award for these, she thinks with a satisfied grin as the dots on her map converge and start to drive forwards as one.

 

It’s the final nail in the coffin for the unprepared Death Eaters - expecting an easy raid and instead finding a wall of resistance - and one by one the red dots start to blink out of existence. Each time one disappears Hermione wonders if its owner has died or has simply disapparated. Each time she desperately hopes it’s the former.

 

Finally there’s only a few Death Eaters remaining, each one surrounded by at least three Order members. Hermione finally lets herself exhale in relief, shaking out her wand arm gingerly. She’s exhausted; she can only imagine how those on the field are feeling. “Great job guys,” she broadcasts again, her voice finally cracking with the emotion she’s held in check for so long. “Get the wounded to the medi tents and then get back here so I can congratulate you all in person.”

 

“Miss Granger,” Severus's voice crackles through his emerald gem. “If you are no longer occupied, I require your assistance by the south treeline.”

 

Hermione frowns, eyes flicking between the gem and her map. She can only see two dots on the south border. One green, one red. What on earth has Severus gotten himself into? “I’ll be right there,” she replies, swishing her wand to banish the wall map and quickly storing the communication gems back in their travel case before apparating to his location with a pop.

 

* * *

 

She materialises gracefully about two feet away from where Severus's marker had positioned him, finding him exactly where she expected. His robes are torn and stained with blood which may or may not be his, but he’s standing tall and his eyes are glittering with fierce determination, which gives her slightly more reassurance about his immediate wellbeing.

 

“Is everything okay?” Hermione asks hesitantly, wondering why he’s called her here given everything that has happened between them lately.

 

Severus blinks slowly, his mouth twisting into a sharp grin. “I have something for you,” he says, and Hermione barely has time to wonder what he means before he steps aside and her heart abruptly stops.

 

Lucius Malfoy is a battered, bloody mess at Severus's feet. He’s barely conscious, propped up against a tree trunk with his arms bound behind his back. His head is lolling against his shoulder and his breath is coming in thick, wet pants. Hermione’s vision goes white around the edges, then sharpens with laser focus.

 

“ _Diffindo_ ,” the hex springs from her wand with barely a conscious thought. Lucius screams as a deep cut slashes across his face from eyebrow to jawline, and Hermione feels something dark and bitter uncurl inside of her.

 

_“Diffindo. Partum Vulnere. Diffindo_.” Slash after slash appear across Lucius’s face and body,  and with every streak of red Hermione feels the monster inside of her grow; stretching and yawning and slowly coming to life.

 

Lucius’ shrieks of pain echo around their surroundings, and she tilts her head consideringly. No, that won’t do at all. “ _Muffilato_ ,” she hisses, cloaking their noises from the outside world, and grins in satisfaction as Lucius’ eyes widen in horror.

 

“Hermione.” Severus's low voice comes from her left, and Hermione turns towards him in surprise. She’d almost forgotten he was still there.

 

“You should leave,” her voice sounds foreign to her own ears, icy cold with determination. “You shouldn’t be here for this.”

 

“Hermione-” Severus starts again, and Hermione practically growls in frustration.

 

“Don’t tell me that I don’t want to do this!” she cries, words cracking with emotion as she levels her wand once more at the man who has brought her so much pain, so much hurt. “You gave him to me, don’t you dare tell me I can’t now have my vengeance.”

 

“On the contrary,” Snape moves fluidly to mimic Hermione’s position, also levelling his wand at the fallen Death Eater. “ _Sectumsempra_ ,” he intones, and Hermione’s eyes widen as blood spurts in a great arc from Lucius’ chest. The man shrieks and writhes, but Severus's dark eyes never leave his form. “There, now we are both equally culpable in whatever you choose to do next.”

 

Hermione blinks, comprehension slowly dawning. A wide, vicious smile breaks out across her features as she turns her attention back to the man at their feet, satisfied that Severus isn’t planning on taking away her revenge.

 

“We’re going to have such fun together, you and I,” Hermione quotes Lucius’ own words back at him, feeling the monster inside of her roar as he squirms and whimpers pitifully. Is this pathetic creature in front of her really the same demon who has haunted her every waking moment for weeks on end?

 

“Please,” the word is a garbled mess spilling from Lucius’ bloody lips, “have mercy.”

 

“Did you show me mercy?” Hermione hisses as she takes a step forward, her wand pointing directly at his heart. “Did you take pity on me when I was at your feet, crying and begging for it all to stop?”

 

“Please-”

 

“Or did you laugh, and take your pound of flesh?” Hermione slowly directs her wand south, until it’s pointing at his crotch. “Did you encourage your _brothers_ to do the same? Did you tell them to see just how much they could make me scream?”

 

“The Dark Lord...he is unforgiving…”

 

“Well. Now it’s my turn. How much will you scream when I take _my_ pound of flesh?” Hermione jerks her wand sharply, and Lucius shrieks as red blossoms at his crotch. Another swipe and the man is naked from the waist down, giving Hermione an unobstructed view of his sliced cock, split from root to tip like a pod of peas.

 

“Lovely,” Hermione croons, throwing herself headfirst into the darkness. “Now to make sure it stays that way. _Aduere_.” The smell of burning flesh assaults her nostrils, and Lucius howls and retches as the wound cauterizes, dark and red and angry.

 

“Do you remember,” Hermione takes another step forward, crouching down so that she’s face to face with the man from her nightmares, a rush of sharp vindication flooding her at the look of absolute terror in his eyes. “When we were so many hours in that I couldn’t even support my own body weight any more. I begged you make it end. I begged you to kill me. Do you remember what you said to me?”

 

Lucius groans, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and Hermione hisses angrily. “Oh no you don’t. _Rennervate_ ,” she spits, bringing him sharply back to consciousness. “Tell me what you said to me, when I pleaded with you to just let me die.”

 

“I said...I said there’s no fun in fucking a corpse,” the words are barely a ghost of breath on Lucius’ lips, but they ring in Hermione’s ears as if they’ve been shouted.

 

“You did, didn’t you?” she whispers back with a smile that is all teeth. “Luckily for you, I have no such designs on your body.” She stands up, brushing the dirt from her thighs as she slowly rises. “When I’m done with you, I’ll let you die,” she continues, voice taking a turn for the almost conversational. “It won’t be for a while of course, but at least you’ll know it’s coming.”

 

* * *

 

Hermione stares down at the broken, crumpled body of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.

 

Blood smears the ground at her feet and she wrinkles her nose in distaste as she steps forward, lifting her foot to kick him in the stomach with the sharp point of her shoe.

 

The man groans, what’s left of the air in his lungs escaping with a pained rush. He really does paint a pathetic picture, Hermione can’t help thinking as she runs a critical eye over his form, committing every last break, wound and bruise to memory. This is what she’ll remember, next time the spectres of her past come to haunt her.

 

A hand rests lightly on her shoulder, and she jumps in surprise. Severus has kept respectfully out of her way throughout her crusade, offering a suggestion here and there but for the most part allowing her to wreak all the bloody vengeance she desires.

 

“You have options,” Severus says smoothly, gently turning her so that she’s forced to look away from the Death Eater and up at him instead. “We can patch him up - marginally - and turn him in. I’ll say he gained his injuries during battle and he won’t dare contest it. He’ll get thrown in Azkaban for life, or what’s left of it before the Dementors come for him.”

 

“No,” Hermione rasps, surprised to hear how wrecked her voice is. When did that happen, she wonders? “No,” she says again more firmly. “He doesn’t leave this clearing alive.”

 

Severus nods sagely, accepting her decision without question. “Very well, but before we reach that stage, may I?” He gestures towards Lucius’ form, and Hermione pauses before jerkily nodding her head in mute permission.

 

Severus walks slowly over to the man, crouching down in front of him. “You heard Miss Granger. This is the end for you,” he practically croons, his voice soft and deadly. “However, the means of your death is still to be decided. Answer my question, and you may still go with dignity.”

 

Hermione growls indignantly, and opens her mouth to argue, but Severus holds up a hand to stop her, gaze still fixed on Lucius.

 

“Tell us how to counter the binding charm,” Severus asks, and Hermione feels the question like a punch to the stomach. She’d gotten so caught up in her rage, her fury, she’d almost forgotten. How could she have almost forgotten?

 

Slowly, oh so slowly, Lucius turns to look at Severus. His face is a mess; both eyes swollen shut and blood staining his lips. “You can’t,” he hisses, lips twisting into an ugly snarl around the words.

 

Severus’s hand darts out, grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair to drag him off the ground and closer towards him. “Think carefully, and try again.”

 

A hoarse, rattling sound fills the clearing, and it takes Hermione a moment to realize that Lucius is trying to laugh. “It was...one of the Dark Lord’s creations. You’ll….you’ll have to ask him.”

 

Severus snarls, and flings Lucius back down onto the ground in disgust. He stands and strides back towards Hermione who’s found herself frozen in place by the Death Eaters’ words.

 

“Do not listen to him,” Severus says, voice low and fervent. “We will find a way. I swear to you, we will find a way.”

 

Hermione looks slowly up at Severus, gaze sliding from his face to Lucius’ crumpled form behind him and back again. She can’t process this revelation. Not now. Not here. “So. Now he dies?” she asks instead, her voice deceptively steady.

 

Severus nods slowly, expression still painfully conflicted. “Now he dies,” he confirms. “However, I ask that you take a moment to consider whether this is something you truly wish to do yourself.”

 

Hermione frowns, opening her mouth to argue, but Severus silences her with one of his now-familiar looks. “Taking a life is not a trivial act. My wand is already tarred with the stain of death, and believe me when I say it would be no hardship to add his to the tally. But ultimately the decision is yours, and you will have no judgement from me for whatever you decide.”

 

Hermione blinks, taking a few long moments to let his words settle before nodding firmly to let him know that she’s given his offer the care and attention it deserves. She squares her shoulders, and moves towards Lucius’s limp form with her wand raised determinedly.

 

“ _Fiendfyre_.” Bright white fire erupts from the tip of her wand, and Lucius lets out one last garbled shriek as the flames engulf him, burning fast and hot and vicious until only a charred skeleton remains.

 

“Hmmm, I thought that would last longer,” Hermione says, feeling strangely detached as she stares down at the ashy remnants of her greatest nightmare. “I suppose Eloise did say that that spell was too good for these bastards.”

 

“His magical signature is still intact,” Severus says, flicking his wand to confirm his statement. “Cleanup will identify his body and record his death as a battleground fatality.”

 

“This won’t come back to me, is what you mean,” Hermione replies, still staring down at what’s left of the body. “Nobody will know what I did here. Apart from you of course.”

 

“As far as I’m concerned, you took from him exactly what you were owed. No more, no less.”

 

Hermione nods, finally tearing her gaze away from the ground and back towards Severus. The man’s eyes are fiery as he stares back at her, and Hermione is sure she can see something akin to pride in his expression.

 

Something heavy wraps around Hermione’s heart as she’s abruptly reminded of what happened between them last time they were together. She doesn’t deserve his pride, not after how she acted. Not after what she did to him.

 

It feels like a chasm has suddenly opened up between them, filled with all the things that are still unsaid. None of it can be addressed now though, not with the body of Lucius Malfoy quite literally at their feet.

 

She sighs heavily, wiping at her cheek with her sleeve and only a little surprised when it comes away bright red. “We should head back to Grimmauld Place,” she says as she casts a rough _Scourgify_ over herself - it feels awful but she can’t exactly arrive covered in blood when she’s been supposedly running intelligence all day. “Everyone will be wondering where we’ve gotten to, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can handle any more pregnancy rumours right about now.”

 

* * *

 

“Cheer up ‘mione, this is supposed to be a victory party, remember?” Harry pushes a glass of firewhiskey into her hand as he sits down on the sofa next to her, expression concerned despite his jovial comment.

 

Hermione plasters on a smile as she turns to face him, trying her hardest to look enthusiastic. “I know, you all did really great today.” It’s true, she thinks as she raises her glass in toast and takes a deep sip. They protected the Welsh ministry, dealt a major blow to Voldemort’s forces and only a few Order members needed to be treated for minor injuries. It’s the first time in a very long time they’ve been able to celebrate such a resounding win.

 

So why doesn’t she feel like celebrating?

 

“You did great too, you know that right?” Harry says more somberly, shuffling slightly closer towards Hermione on the sofa as they both stare out across the room, watching the rest of the Order drink and mingle and laugh. “I know it’s got to be hard, being on the sidelines while we’re all out there, but you know we couldn’t have done what we did today without you guiding us all.”

 

“Oh Harry, you’re making me blush,” Hermione deflects, waving her hand at him half-heartedly.

 

“I mean it,” Harry says, unwilling to be deterred, and Hermione has a sneaking suspicion his blunt honesty is at least partly alcohol-fueled. “I know you’ve been through a lot recently, and I...I just want you to know that we’re here for you. We all are. And even if - _when_ \- St Mungo’s gives you a clean bill of health, you’re still just as important off the field as on it…okay?”

 

“Thanks Harry,” Hermione says, feeling the first genuine smile touch her lips all night. She reaches out to pat him fondly on the knee. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”

 

“I don’t know about that,” Harry sighs, taking a deep swig of his own drink. “All this fighting, all this death, and I can’t help thinking that it’s all because of me. Sometimes I wonder if things might be better off if I just...wasn’t around. At least that way I wouldn’t be hurting the people I love.”

 

Something in Harry’s voice tells her that he’s not looking for false platitudes or meaningless reassurances, so instead she shifts closer so that she can lay her head on his shoulder. “This war really is a bitch, huh?”

 

Harry snorts into his drink, lifting an arm to slip around her shoulders, and for a while they both simply watch the merriment surrounding them, accepting their place on the outside for at least a little bit.

  
“You should talk to him.” Harry’s voice eventually brings her out of her musings, and she twists her head to raise a confused eyebrow at him. Harry nods in the direction she’s previously been staring. “Snape. You should go talk to him.”

 

“Hmm?” Hermione tries, not quite willing to admit that she’s been tracking Severus's movements around the room for most of the night.

 

“If you’re worried about another outburst from Ron, you don’t need to be,” Harry says, moving swiftly past her feeble denial. “He can be a bit of a plonker sometimes, but at the end of the day he just wants you to be happy. We both do.”

 

Hermione sighs heavily, turning to bury her face in Harry’s shoulder again. “It’s complicated,” she mumbles into the soft cotton of his jumper. “Besides, he doesn’t see me like that.”

 

“You’re joking, right?” Harry snorts. “Hermione, trust another bloke on this one. Snape likes you...he _really_ likes you.” He wiggles his eyebrows for good measure, just in case Hermione wasn’t abundantly clear on his meaning.

 

“Okay, now I know you’re drunk,” Hermione replies, feeling her face flush red in embarrassment.

 

“All I’m saying,” Harry says, completely ignoring the jibe, “is that if you wanted to go down that road, you have our blessing. Not that you need it of course.”

 

“Of course,” Hermione echos distantly, feeling a little like she’s having an out of body experience. “But either way, it’s still complicated.”

 

Now it’s Harry’s turn to raise an eyebrow at her. “And when has anything like that ever stopped you?”

 

* * *

 

Hermione closes the door to her room with a soft click, the merriment of the celebrations still raging downstairs quieting to a soft hum as the wards around her room automatically kick in. She’s glad that everyone is enjoying themselves, genuinely, but she can’t be around that much enthusiasm anymore, not when her heart still feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of her chest.

 

She goes through her nighttime routine almost on autopilot, roughly shutting down her brain every time it strays towards any of the dangerous subject matter today has provided her with. Lucius choking on his own blood as it spurted from his mouth. The smell of burning flesh as she removed his penis from his body chunk by tiny chunk. The look of satisfaction on Severus’s face as she systematically reduced the Death Eater to nothing more than a shell of a human being. The way he disappeared from her side the moment they arrived home, and refused to meet her gaze at any point afterwards.

 

She’s dressed in the warmest, comfiest pyjamas she owns and is just about to climb into bed when she feels the snake shift between her legs.

 

She whimpers and immediately tenses, far too emotionally drained to deal with its onslaught right now, especially after what Lucius revealed in the forest.

 

She’s so primed for the assault, every cell in her body tensed in anticipation, that it takes her a moment to realise that the toy has shifted downwards, away from her body rather than up into it.

 

She holds her breath as she cautiously slips a hand under the waistband of her trousers, fingers tracing hesitantly down between her legs until they meet silicone. There’s a gap, between her flesh and the baseplate of the toy. Not a large gap by any means, but definitely something. She gasps, and sits down heavily on the side of the bed, mind reeling from this new revelation. Now that the instrument isn’t attached to her she can feel the weight of it hanging inside of her. Begging to be removed.

 

Is this a trick? Some new emotional manipulation where she’s given the illusion of freedom, only to have it snatched away at the eleventh hour? She doesn’t care, she has to know.

 

She wriggles as she shifts her trousers lower on her hips so she has more space to work, then takes a deep breath, scrunching her eyes firmly closed and refusing to second guess her actions as she takes hold of the baseplate and tugs.

 

The toy slides easily out of her, like it was never meant to be there at all.

 

With shaking hands she draws the instrument out from between her legs and holds it up in front of her. The snake’s hood is folded flat, the animal’s eyes closed like it’s sleeping. It looks almost peaceful, like it knows its work here is done. The silicone is slightly warm to the touch, a testimony to just how long it’s been nestled inside of her, and it’s light. Lighter than it has any right to be, considering just how much its presence has been weighing her down.

 

The analytical side of her brain springs into action, eager to explain how Lucius’ death must have broken whatever binding charm he placed on the toy, but for once the emotional side of her brain simply can’t find the energy to care.

 

How can such a small thing have done so much damage?

 

She screams, heat flooding through her body wild and unfiltered as everything suddenly overwhelms her. Her hand flexes around the base of the toy as her magic shatters it into a thousand tiny pieces, sending bright green crystals flying in every direction. She yells again, and the wooden chest of drawers on the far side of the room groans and splinters, buckling under the weight of the raw, uncontrolled magic she’s sent exploding throughout the room.

 

She closes her eyes, and lets it consume her. Her magic whips around her like a hurricane, destroying everything in its path. Curtains are ripped down from the windows, the carpet is torn up and shredded. She feels herself drop to the floor as the legs of her bed buckle and bend. No part of her room is left unscathed. Why should it be, when nothing of her was left untouched?

 

The door bursts open with an almighty crash, but Hermione can barely hear it above the ringing in her ears. She opens her eyes to see Severus standing in the doorway; an angel of death in all-black sleepwear. His wand is out and he slashes frantically through the wards Hermione set around the room, his eyes flashing in concern as her magic slows his progress to a crawl.

 

“Hermione? What in Salazar’s name...” It sounds like his words are coming from very far away, and Hermione can only blink in his direction as he finally breaks through the wards and rushes to her side.

 

“Hermione? Look at me.” He crouches in front of her, patting his hands down her arms as if to check for injury “Are you okay? What happened?”

 

Hermione slowly lifts her gaze to meet his, continuing to blink slowly as her brain wades through treacle to try and reach him. She doesn’t know what happened. She doesn’t know anything any more.

 

“I think…” her voice is barely a whisper on her lips, “I think maybe it’s time for me to see a mind healer.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments on the last chapter! I'm sorry this one is a bit delayed, but hopefully it's worth the wait!

The first three appointments Hermione schedules with an Eloise-approved mind healer, she doesn’t actually manage to attend.

 

The first time, Harry and Ron desperately need her help with a tricky Mermish translation that absolutely can’t wait. 

 

The second time, she’s buried in a new book and doesn’t notice the time and it’s just  _ rude _ to arrive late. 

 

The third time, she makes it all the way to the healer’s door before turning around and heading straight back home. She doesn’t have an excuse for that one.

 

And of course, after three no-shows it’s just too embarrassing to book a fourth appointment, so maybe now isn’t the best time for her to try this approach after all.

 

Unfortunately for Hermione, word of her misadventures swiftly reaches Eloise’s ears, which means Sunday evening finds her explaining her decision to a very concerned medi-witch via private floo.

 

“It’s not uncommon for people to have trouble attending their first session,” Eloise explains patiently. “I promise you, nobody is judging you.”

 

“I just can’t.” Hermione props her head up on her hands as she sits cross-legged in front of the fire. “The idea of having to tell someone what happened, of having to go through everything those monsters did to me...I just don’t think I can do it.”

 

“You won’t have to address everything in the first session. You don’t have to talk about anything at all if you don’t want to. Just meet with Healer Park, see if you get on well with her as a person.”

 

“Right now, I’m Jane Doe. As soon as I walk through that door she’ll know it’s me. She’ll know that it was Hermione Granger that was…” Hermione chokes on the end of her sentence. How on earth is she supposed to talk to a stranger about her ordeal if she can’t even vocalise it to herself?

 

There’s a pause while Eloise considers Hermione’s words and Hermione pointedly focuses her attention on the dancing flames next to her ear. “Would you prefer to schedule some time with me instead?” Eloise finally offers. “I obviously don’t specialize in this area, but we’re all required to go through certain levels of training during our time as Junior Healers. I have the sense that the comfort of a familiar face might outweigh the limitations of me not being a specialist.”

 

“Oh…” Hermione stammers, not expecting the offer and thus completely unprepared to respond. “Oh, no, I’m sure you’re incredibly busy with your regular work. I couldn’t possibly impose on your time like that.”

 

“We’ve discussed this, Hermione. I assure you, you would be doing no such thing.” Eloise nods at her fiery surrounding as if to prove her point. “But how about this as a compromise? We don’t have to book anything formally, but my calendar will stay free at two pm on Tuesday. If you wish to talk, you will find me in my office at St. Mungo’s. If not, I will use the hour to catch up on paperwork.” She pauses, and smiles. “I promise you, the paperwork is a far greater inconvenience.”

 

Hermione lets out a soft laugh despite herself. “Okay...I’ll consider it,” she says, feeling infinitely better for Eloise having pitched it as an option rather than a requirement.

 

“That’s all I would ever ask for,” Eloise replies with another smile before crackling out of existence and leaving Hermione alone with her increasingly muddled thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Hermione paces anxiously around the kitchen table, pausing to throw up yet another  _ Tempus _ . Ten minutes to two. If she wants to get to an apparition point and meet Eloise on time, she needs to leave now.

 

She growls and starts up her pacing again. She wants to go, she knows she does. She thinks the does. Her brain wants to go while her chest is screaming at her to stay, but another few moments and her brain will win the argument, she’s sure of it.

 

Eight minutes to two.

 

Five minutes to two.

 

She doesn’t know why she can’t make herself leave this room. It’s not like her anonymity is at stake; Eloise is still bound by her unbreakable vow after all. And the healer herself had said that they didn’t need to talk about anything in the first session, just see how things feel between them. She can do that. Can’t she?

 

She slumps into a chair at the head of the table and lets her head drop onto the smooth surface with a heavy thunk. The noise reverberates satisfyingly around the room so she lifts her head and does it again.

 

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” 

 

Hermione’s head snaps up at the familiar voice, and she hastily pushes herself up to standing. She can already feel her face flushing in embarrassment at being caught behaving so ridiculously.

 

“Severus…” she stammers, “I didn’t see you there.”

 

“Evidently not; you were too busy testing the resilience of cranial bone against solid oak.” Severus's voice crackles with his particular brand of dry humour that she’s missed so much, and despite her embarrassment Hermione feels the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile. “The question still remains as to why, though.”

 

Hermione sighs, her fleeting good mood instantly disappearing. “I have an appointment with Eloise,” she says, one hand coming up to rub at her head which has suddenly started to throb. “But it looks like I won’t be able to make it.”

 

“Why not? You hardly appear to be busy.”

 

Hermione swishes her wand again, cringing as her  _ Tempus _ tells her that it’s now exactly on the hour. “We were due to meet at two,” she admits, “but I couldn’t get to an apparition point and now I’ll be late.”

 

Severus stares at her intently for a moment before giving a heavy sigh. “Come,” he says, holding out his arm. “I shall accompany you.”

 

“What?” Hermione splutters in surprise. “Why?”

 

“Because otherwise you will succeed in talking yourself out of going, which I do not believe is what you truly wish,” Severus gestures his arm at her again, rolling his eyes at her hesitance. “You may think of me as your chaperone for this excursion, if you so choose.”

 

“It’s not the eighteen-hundreds, I don’t need a chaperone,” Hermione tries to argue, but she finds herself reaching for his arm nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

“Hermione, thank you so much for coming,” Eloise says with a smile as she ushers Hermione into her office like Hermione is the one doing her a favour by turning up. “Lovely to see you again, Master Snape, but we’ve got things from here.”

 

Severus bows his head sagely, but doesn’t move until Hermione jerkily nods in agreement. “Thank you, Severus,” she says quietly, still unsure where the two of them stand with one another. “I really appreciate you getting me here in one piece.”

 

Severus's eyes glitter with some unnamed emotion, but eventually he nods again, turning and striding back down the hallway with an exaggerated swish of his robes. 

 

“Always so dramatic, that one,” Eloise says with a conspiratorial smile as she shuts the door behind them. “Now, can I get you anything to drink?”

 

“Just water, please,” Hermione says as she seats herself awkwardly in one of the two armchairs Eloise has set up in front of her desk.

 

Eloise hands her a glass and sits in the other armchair, twisting the seat to face Hermione before folding her hands placidly in her lap. “Thank you again for coming to see me today, I know taking this first step can be challenging.”

 

“I was just being silly,” Hermione says, taking a deep sip from her water just to give herself something to do. “I don’t usually need such a kick to make myself do something, but I guess this isn’t exactly a usual situation.”

 

“That is certainly true,” Eloise agrees, “I don’t think anybody would fault you for a bit of hesitance. The important thing though is that you’re here now.”

 

“That was mostly Severus's doing, not mine.”

 

“I’m a strong believer that it doesn’t matter how something happens, only that it does.”

 

“I’ll make sure to remind Molly of that next time she starts berating the twins for using Ever-Bashing Boomerangs to get everyone to dinner on time.”

 

Eloise laughs, her voice light and carefree in a way that Hermione can’t quite remember being any more. “Well, points for effectiveness I suppose. What else have those two gotten up to in the name of timekeeping?”

 

True to Eloise’s word, they spend the next half-hour talking about very little of importance, sticking to strictly innocent topics that don’t even hint at any sensitive subject matter. As the minutes tick by Hermione finds herself relaxing in the other woman’s company, and by the time Eloise shakes her hand and opens the door for her again, she thinks that maybe the next time they meet she might actually be able to talk about … other things.

 

She falters in surprise when she sees Severus sitting on a plastic chair just down the hallway, flicking casually through an old copy of  _ Potion Master’s Digest _ .

 

“What are you still doing here?” she asks as she approaches, brow furrowed in confusion.

 

Severus looks up from his magazine, placing it on the chair next to him as he stands up to meet her. “What sort of chaperone would I be if I just left you here?” he replies dryly as he holds out his arm for her to take again. 

 

Hermione doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, so she settles for slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow and holding on tight as the familiar tug of apparition presses in around her.

 

They materialise just around the corner from Grimmauld place, and Severus seems happy to allow Hermione to keep her grip on his arm as they make their way back the house, immediately directing them through to the kitchen when they arrive. 

 

He deposits her in one of the chairs at the end of the table, and promptly gets to work boiling the kettle and getting cups out of the cupboard. “Would you like your usual? Or something more soothing, chamomile perhaps?”

 

“Usual is fine,” Hermione says faintly, feeling very out of her depth. After being wholly absent for almost two full weeks Severus is now acting like nothing has changed between them, and she has absolutely no idea how to react to that.

 

“Would you like some biscuits too? I’m sure Molly has some digestives stashed around here somewhere.”

 

“Why are you doing this?” The words slip out before Hermione can really think about what she’s asking.

 

Severus pauses, turning to look at her, and Hermione thinks she sees a flicker of emotion flash across his features. Before she can be sure though, he’s turned back to continue his hunt through the cupboards. “Today has no doubt been incredibly emotionally taxing for you. Hot drinks and comfort food are an excellent remedy in situations such as these.”

 

“You know what I mean,” Hermione says, a sliver of annoyance slipping into her words at him so clearly choosing to feign ignorance. “Why are you being so nice to me, after what I did to you?”

 

This time when Severus turns back to face her she’s sure she isn’t imagining the confusion written across his face. “What you did to me?” he says slowly, like he genuinely doesn’t understand.

 

Hermione growls and slaps the table with her hand, hating him a little for making her spell it out, even if it’s what she deserves. “Throwing myself at you. Kissing you when you didn’t want me to. You’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t have any interest in me like that, and I forced myself on you anyway and I’m so, so sorry.” She breaks off with a pant, her words starting to run away with her now that she finally has the opportunity to make the apology she’s been trying to make for far too long. 

 

“I’m so very sorry, Severus,” she repeats more quietly, gaze fixed on the table in front of her so she doesn’t have to see the disgust on Severus's face as she talks. “There’s no excuse for my actions. I hate myself for doing that to you, especially after everything you’ve done for me. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but if there’s any way I can make it up to you, I swear I’ll do it.”

 

Silence envelops the room, and Hermione squeezes her eyes shut to stop the tears from coming. She won’t cry, she won’t demand his pity. She caused this mess, and now she’ll face up to the consequences.

 

“You…” Severus's voice sounds strangled, like he had to force the word out of his throat letter by letter. Hermione looks up in surprise, and instead of seeing disgust on the man’s face she sees absolute anguish. Severus huffs and plucks his wand out of his sleeve, casting a sharp  _ Muffilato _ around the kitchen before continuing. “You think I don’t desire you?”

 

“I...of course you don’t,” Hermione stutters, completely nonplussed. “Why on earth would you?”

 

Severus barks out a sharp, brittle laugh. “Hermione. You are smart, talented, beautiful. Your mind puts witches and wizards many years your senior to shame. You showcase the very best of what Gryffindors have to offer; kind, courageous, loyal. I would have to be an absolute fool not to want you.”

 

“Then...then why did you leave?” Hermione asks, mind still tripping over the praise the usually reticent man has suddenly become so forthcoming with.

 

Severus sighs and scrubs at his face roughly with his hand before taking a jerky step towards her. With a scrape he turns her chair so that she’s facing him, then sinks to a crouch in front of her. “You have also recently gone through an experience so traumatic, so harrowing, that your mind is latching onto any form of comfort it can find,” he says quietly, reaching forward to take her hands in his own, while Hermione can only blink slowly down at him. 

 

“I am an old curmudgeon with no redeeming qualities other than my ability to play the villain when needed, of that fact I am more than aware. You are not interested in me, you are interested in the security of the one person who understands all that you have had to endure.” He pauses, thumb stroking soothingly across the back of Hermione’s palm. “In time you will see that these feelings you think you harbour for me are nothing more than your mind’s attempts to rationalize what you have been through. I refuse to take advantage of your misguided affections in the meantime.”

 

Hermione continues to blink at him, mind carefully working through everything he’s just said. Finally it all slots into place, and she can’t help her incredulous snort in response. “Oh, do fuck off.”

 

Severus jerks backwards, eyebrows shooting into his hairline. “Excuse me?” 

 

“You don’t get to do this, decide what I’m supposed to feel or who I’m supposed to feel it for.” Hermione snatches her hands out of his and uses them to shove at his shoulders until he’s forced to stand up. She swiftly rises to meet him and pokes him hard in the chest with her index finger. “I am  _ more  _ than aware of what I’ve been through, thank you very much, and I also know exactly how I feel for you. Quite frankly I resent the implication that I’m simply a fragile girl too disturbed to know her own mind.”

 

“I...no...that’s not what I meant,” Severus splutters, for once lost for words, and Hermione swiftly presses her advantage.

 

“You apparently have so many nice things to say about me; now it’s my turn. You, Severus Snape, are brave, and commanding, with a strength of character that I’m constantly in awe of. You are thoughtful, and patient, and if I am as smart as you say I am then surely I belong with someone who is my intellectual equal.” She can feel heat flush her cheeks but she presses on regardless. “None of those things are changed by what we went through, not a single one.”

 

“No,” Severus protests, taking a step backwards. “No, you don’t mean that.”

 

“I absolutely do,” Hermione insists, stepping forward to meet him some sort of confrontational tango. “I thought it before, and I think it now. I want you, Severus, in spite of what happened, not because of it.”

 

“I don’t deserve you,” Severus's voice has taken on a pleading edge, like he’s desperate for her to reveal that this is all some elaborate joke. “You deserve so much better than me.”

 

Hermione laughs dismissively, crossing her arms in front of her. “Oh please, I’m a mess. You’re right about one thing I suppose; those fuckers really did a number on me. If I were less selfish I’d let  _ you _ walk away and find someone who’s less of a trainwreck, but I guess selflessness isn’t on my list of favorable qualities.”

 

“I did this to you!” Severus's admission explodes through the kitchen like an unforgivable. “Everything that happened to you is entirely my fault.”

 

Hermione draws up short at his vehement outburst. “You know I don’t blame you for not telling Voldemort what he wanted to know.” She had been so sure that he had understood that. “You did what was necessary, what was needed to keep the Order safe.”

 

Severus shakes his head sadly, “You don’t understand,” he says, shoulders hunching inwards as if his whole body is finally admitting defeat. “It’s my fault you were there in the first place.”

 

“Wh- How?”

 

Severus sighs and slumps into the nearest chair, gesturing wearily for Hermione to join him. She drags a chair to face him and slips into it, eyes never leaving the other man’s form.

 

“That day,” Severus begins, not needing to clarify which day he’s referring to, “the Dark Lord knew about my true allegiances when he summoned me. I don’t know who or what tipped him off, but suffice to say I apparated straight into a trap.”

 

Hermione tenses, reaching forward to take Severus's hand. Severus flinches and jerks his hand away, and Hermione has to bite her lip to stop the hurt showing on her features as she quickly withdraws. Severus's eyes are filled with apology as they flick to hers, but she doesn’t know if it’s for the rejection or for what he’s about to reveal.

 

“The Dark Lord...he was so angry at having been deceived,” Severus finally continues, his voice a dull monotone. “He wanted information, but he also wanted revenge. I held out for as long as I could, but I eventually I started to feel my Occlumency shields slipping. I knew it was only a matter of time before he uncovered information that would have been irreparably damaging to the Order. So I gave him something else instead.”

 

“What did you give him?” Hermione practically whispers, suddenly sure she doesn’t want to hear the answer.

 

“A memory of you, just before I left. You told me to be careful, like you might actually want me to return.” Severus's voice walks a tightrope edge between fond and heartbroken. “I gave him the memory of what you said...and the memory of how it felt to hear you say it.”

 

Hermione’s hand comes up to cover her mouth in horror as the implications of Severus's words finally hit home. “No.”

 

“It was the first thing that came to mind. You have to believe me, I had no idea that he would-”

 

“No. No it was just bad luck-”

 

“If I had even suspected, I would never have let him know-”

 

“I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time-”

 

“If I could go back and change what happened, I would in a heartbeat. I’d give him a different memory. Something else.  _ Anything _ else-”

 

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Hermione stands up abruptly, only just hearing the clatter of her chair as it topples over behind her above the blood pounding in her ears. 

 

“ _ Hermione _ ,” Severus's voice cracks as he hurriedly rises, reaching out towards her in desperation.

 

Hermione throws up her own hands in protest and takes a step backwards, knowing that if he touches her right now she’ll shatter into a thousand tiny pieces that will never fit back together again. “I’m not walking away from you, from this,” she says, gesturing between the two of them. “I just…I just need some time to process.” 

 

Severus freezes, hand still stretched out towards her. Slowly, he flexes his fingers, then drops his hand back down to his side. His shoulders straighten, his chin comes up. Hermione can practically see his mask of indifference slotting into place. “Of course,” he says, every inch the emotionless Hogwarts Professor. “Take all the time you need.”

 

“I’ll come back,” Hermione promises even as she starts to slink towards the door. “I swear, I will come back.”

 

“I will not blame you if you do not,” Severus's final comment follows her out of the door as she turns tail and flees.

 

She makes it around the corner and halfway up the stairs before she collapses, her legs buckling underneath her as she gasps out a distraught sob. One hand reaches out to grasp at the bannister so she doesn’t go tumbling back downstairs, the other covers her mouth in a futile attempt to force her cries back inside of her.

 

She can’t believe it. Everything she assumed about that day is wrong, so very wrong.

 

She had been a target from the very beginning, singled out specifically to be used as a pawn in some sick game between two other wizards. Rage sparks hot and furious inside of her. Everything she suffered, everything she endured. It was all because of what she meant to somebody else. Who she was to somebody else,

 

The worst thing that has ever happened to her, and she can’t even claim it as her own.

 

_ “It’s all my fault.”  _ Severus’s voice echoes in her brain and she screams into her hand, biting down on the soft flesh of her palm and grounding herself in the pain that immediately blossoms. He did this to her. Everything that happened to her that night, and all the days afterwards; it was all because he thought she wasn’t valuable enough to protect.

 

Except...no. She knows better than that. She’s experienced first-hand the brutality of Voldemort’s Legilimency, knows all too well the pain of trying to hold an Occlumency shield for too long. She remembers how everything blurs and melts together until it’s impossible to separate one memory from the next. More recent memories stay the clearest for the longest, and there would have been nothing more recent in Severus’s brain than their interaction. 

 

She shakes her head angrily, forcibly reminding herself that Severus is a victim in all of this just as much as her. Only a coward would blame him for Voldemort’s barbarity. She should be focussing her anger on the wizards that caused her suffering, not the wizard who has been there desperately picking up the pieces of herself she keeps on dropping.

 

_ “I will not blame you if you do not.”  _ Severus’s voice echoes again, and this time her sob is one of guilt. 

 

She left him. 

 

He stayed by her side throughout the truly unimaginable, offered her parts of himself when she didn’t have anything left of her own to give, even while harbouring this awful, misplaced notion that her predicament was his fault.

 

And now, when he’s finally asking the same of her? She runs away and leaves him without a second thought.

 

She hauls herself upright, heart pounding and legs clumsy as she races down the stairs and back to the kitchen. There’s still so much she’s still unsure of, but the one thing that’s crystal clear in her mind is that she never should have walked away from Severus.

 

She careens through the doorway to the kitchen, panting heavily as the adrenaline spikes sharply through her body. Severus is still exactly where she left him, sitting at the table with his head in his hands.

 

She grips the doorframe and takes a few gulping breaths of air, willing her heartrate to calm before she walks across the room, not wanting to startle the man on top of everything else she’s put him through. She sits down in the seat next to him, and cautiously places a hand on his shoulder. Severus flinches minutely at the contact, but otherwise gives no acknowledgement of her presence.

 

“We have a lot to talk about,” Hermione says, her newfound determination causing her voice to echo with unexpected calmness. “But first, I’d really like to give you a hug.”

 

She pauses, giving him time to object before slowly drawing him towards her, turning his body and wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. Severus goes rigid from head to toe, then instantly deflates, collapsing onto her shoulder as his body shudders with sobs.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeats again and again into her neck, arms clutching at her back as she makes soothing sounds and rubs small circles between his shoulder-blades.

 

“Its okay, I forgive you. I forgive you for all of it,” she whispers, still unsure whether there’s actually anything that needs forgiving, but knowing that Severus needs to hear it regardless. 

 

It takes a long while, but eventually he stills in her arms. There’s a beat of calm where Hermione can fully appreciate their embrace, then Severus seems to suddenly realise where he is and jerks backwards sharply.

 

“My apologies,” he says gruffly, scrubbing a hand across his face almost angrily. “There is no excuse for such unbecoming behaviour.”

 

“Severus,” Hermione says, trying very hard not to smile at the man’s bluster. “Do be quiet.”

 

Severus’s mouth snaps shut, and his eyes widen before narrowing into what would probably be a glare if he were anywhere near regular form.

 

“You’re allowed to be a mess sometimes, you know,” Hermione says, one hand rubbing slowly up and down his arm. She’s not sure if he’s even noticed her doing it. “Merlin knows I am enough of of the time nowadays.”

 

“You have every excuse to be, considering.”

 

“So do you.” Hermione holds up her hand when Severus looks like he’s about to start protesting. “I know you don’t like me saying it, but I wasn’t the only one Voldemort hurt that night. If anything that statement is more true for what you just told me, not less.”

 

It’s true, Hermione realises as Severus immediately breaks her gaze, averting his eyes back to the table in front of him. Not only had he been forced to watch another person be assaulted, knowing that he had the means to stop it but unable to do so, but that person had been someone he apparently cared deeply about. Voldemort had tapped into a whole level of sadism that Hermione hadn’t even considered.

 

“Your words are kind, but patently untrue.” Severus’s words are a dull monotone, and Hermione’s heart breaks a little at his dejection.

 

“I am more than happy to discuss the intricacies of what is and is not allowed after surviving a psychopathic megalomaniac at his most destructive some other time. I’m reasonably confident it’s a debate I might actually win, not least because I’ll certainly have Eloise on my side.” Hermione’s voice comes out sharper than she intends, as is always the case when her emotions start to get the better of her. “But right now the thing I really need you to know is that everything I said before still stands. I still want you, Severus Snape, if you’ll have me.”

 

Severus slowly lifts his gaze back towards her, his expression a cross between hopeful and defeated. “You cannot possibly mean that.”

 

“And yet somehow, I think you’ll find I do.”

 

“Foolish girl.”

 

“Oh, is that one not on my list of appealing qualities? What a shame.”

 

Severus growls, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Gryffindors!”

 

“Now that one definitely was on the list, I remember. No take-backs.”

 

Severus growls again, but this time Hermione is sure his response is more fond than infuriated. “Fine, you insufferable wonder, I concede.”

 

Hermione feels the smile break across her face before she can stop herself. “To be clear,” she says, needing to be absolutely sure, “is that a yes?”

 

Severus gives an exaggerated sigh, his black eyes glinting with something that makes Hermione’s insides spark. “It’s a yes.”

 

Hermione does not whoop in satisfaction, because she’s only just gotten Severus on board and she’s not about to scare him off so soon, but it’s a decidedly close call.

 

“I’m glad,” she says instead, finally letting the smile she’s been keeping in check bloom across her face. “Does that mean I can kiss you now?”

 

Severus jerks in surprise, eyes widening. “You would want to?”

 

“I thought that was implied?”

 

Severus blinks at her for a few long seconds that seem to stretch for an eternity. Just when Hermione thinks he’s going to say no and break her heart all over again he leans forwards, one hand reaching up to gently cup her cheek as he tips his head to meet hers.

 

“You are sure?” he asks softly, the words ghosting over her lips in a promise of things to come.

 

“Absolutely,” she replies without hesitation, leaning forwards and vanishing the final inch between them.

 

Hermione, being the sort of woman that she is, has read her fair share of romance novels in her lifetime. She grew up on stories of electric first kisses, of first contact between lovers that sets the very earth quaking. She read again and again of kisses that were passionate, soul-shaking, groundbreaking. She learnt that mouths were supposed to crash together in moments of wildness almost terrifying in their intensity. None of her trysts at Hogwarts had ever come anywhere close to matching these promises of the written word, but she always told herself that it would be different when it was with someone who mattered.

  
Kissing Severus isn’t any of these things. It’s not fire, or heat, or destruction. Thunderclaps don’t sound and the ground doesn’t fracture beneath her feet. 

 

Kissing Severus is coming in from the cold to a roaring fire already crackling merrily. It’s climbing into a bed made up with freshly laundered sheets, the floral scent of fabric softener wafting up to greet her. Kissing Severus is curling up on the sofa with a book and a steaming mug of hot chocolate, knowing that there’s nothing more important that requires her attention. It’s soft conversation and easy laughter, and the comfort of knowing that she’s exactly where she wants to be.

 

For Hermione Granger, kissing Severus Snape is like finally coming home.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I'm **SO** sorry this chapter took so long! The run-up to Christmas completely got away from me this year, and then I've spent the last two weeks travelling the length of the UK visiting family! I hope this chapter is worth the wait, and I promise the next one is well underway so it shouldn't be such a long gap this time!

Hermione hums happily and leans into the kiss, tongue flicking out to cautiously trace along Severus’s fine lips. Severus groans in response and presses forwards to meet her, his mouth moving in time with hers as she loses herself in the touch and taste of him.

 

They fit so perfectly together, Hermione can’t work out why they haven’t done this sooner. She wants more, she wants everything. She wants to melt together until it’s impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. She whimpers needily, arms moving to loop around his neck to draw him closer, and Severus responds by stroking one of his hands back along her cheek and curling it into the thick hair at the base of her neck.

 

_ Lucius grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her head backwards viciously, forcing her to arch her spine to stop the follicles from being ripped straight from her head. She cries out, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as her scalp burns in sharp agony.  _

 

_ “Always good to have a proper handhold,” Lucius leers from behind her as he tugs at her hair again, his laughter sharp and precise above the general din of the surrounding Death Eaters, all clamouring to be the next in line to have their turn with her body. “Come on girl, you know I love it when you scream for me.” _

 

Hermione gasps and jerks away sharply, hands coming up to cover herself defensively as the memories swirl around her. She can feel the pinpricks of pain across her scalp, hear the jeers and catcalls as fire lances through her body. She gasps again and scrubs frantically at her face, trying to rid herself of the spectre of that night. She’s not still there, she can’t still be there. She doesn’t want it, please, no.

 

“Hermione? Hermione can you hear me?” A light touch comes down on her arm and she cries out and takes another jerky step backwards. She doesn’t want to be touched, she doesn’t want to be hurt.

 

“Hermione. It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s just me. It’s just Severus.” Somewhere through the red haze of panic recognition spikes. Severus’s soothing voice offering her a metronome chant for her to latch onto. She gasps a few frantic breaths around the ball of terror that has lodged in her throat. 

 

“That’s it, love. Just breathe.” Finally oxygen starts to flow back to her brain, and Hermione suddenly becomes aware of just how tensely she’s holding herself. With a heavy exhale she forces herself to relax, one muscle at a time, until she doesn’t feel like she might shatter into a thousand shards at any moment.

 

“That’s it, you’re doing so well.” 

 

She opens her eyes, one at a time, and finds herself on the other side of the kitchen to where she started, back pressed firmly up against the cool stone wall. Severus has moved with her, but has stopped about two feet away from her. His expression is one of pure concern even as his voice remains low and soothing.

 

She groans, one hand coming up to cover her face in mortification as the reality of her situation finally registers. “Merlin, I’m so sorry,” she says, voice shaky with emotion.

 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Severus’s voice is firm as he  _ Accio’s _ a chair from the other side of the room, slipping it behind her as her legs start to buckle. “On the contrary, it is you who must forgive me for being too forward.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Hermione insists as she slumps heavily into the offered chair, her body unable to hold itself up any longer. “It wasn’t you, I promise.” She groans as she recalls those final moments before everything went so very wrong. “It was just … the hair thing.”

 

“The hair thing?” Hermione would have laughed at Severus’s confusion if she still had any energy left.

 

“Voldemort’s men - they liked my hair,” she says heavily, squeezing her eyes shut to try and keep herself grounded as she explains. “They would grab it, tug it, make me cry from the pain.” She sighs, scrubbing at her face again. “I guess your hands being in my hair brought back those memories and I- I reacted badly.”

 

Silence follows her confession, and she slowly opens her eyes again to see Severus watching her with an expression of such extreme sorrow on his face that it makes her heart ache. “But I was just being silly,” she hastens to clarify. “I’m sure i’ll be fine now that I know it’s coming.” She pushes herself up to standing, ignoring how unsteady her legs feel as she steps forward to meet Severus. 

 

“Try again,” she insists, taking one of his hands and guiding it back behind her head. “I’ll be better this time, I swear.”

 

Severus barks out short, forlorn laugh. “Oh, Hermione, no.” He extracts his hand from hers and gently cups her jaw instead. “The idea of doing something you find in any way uncomfortable is abhorrent to me.”

 

“But...” Hermione stammers, “but it’s okay, I won’t be uncomfortable this time.” 

 

“How about we stick to things you don’t have to convince yourself to enjoy?” Severus says softly, thumb stroking soothingly across Hermione’s cheek as he slowly leans in. “I believe you had no objections to this before wayward hands entered the mix?” 

 

This time Severus’s lips are a sweet press against hers, soft and delicate and filled with the unspoken assurance that they can stop at any time. The tightness in Hermione’s chest finally unwinds, her heart finding comfort in his gentle touch, with hands that are nowhere near her hair. She hums her approval, and allows herself to return the chaste gesture.

 

Severus pulls away all too soon, and Hermione has to force herself not to follow him. “Okay?” he asks, eyes dark and sincere.

 

“Yes,” she breathes, pleased to find she means it.

 

A hint of a smile twitches at the edge of Severus’s lips. “I’m glad,” he says, “May I continue?”

 

“Please do.”

 

“I fucking knew it!”

 

Hermione and Severus immediately spring apart, heads whipping in unison towards the source of the outraged shout. Hermione feels her heart drop into her stomach as she sees Ron standing in the doorway, one hand clenching at the frame so tightly his knuckles have turned white.

 

“I knew it!” Ron exclaims again, voice pitching alarmingly high. “You all told me I was being ridiculous, but I knew it!”

 

“Ron!” Hermione stammers, taking a step towards her friend with her hand outstretched, like he’s a frightened animal in need of placating. “Ron, it’s not what it looks like.”

 

“It isn’t?!” Ron’s fury practically shakes the walls around them.

 

“It isn’t?” Severus’s echo is so quiet in the shadow of Ron’s outrage, but it slices through Hermione just as effectively. She whips her head back to see confusion on Severus’s face, and she realises how her denial must have sounded.

 

“I mean. It is. But it wasn’t. Before.” She growls in frustration at her nonsensical blustering, stopping to take a deep, fortifying breath. “What I mean is, this is new,” she gestures between herself and Severus. “About five minutes new. We weren’t lying to you before, I swear it.”

 

Ron’s eyes narrow, and Hermione steels herself for a classic Weasley outburst. Keeping her eyes on her friend she reaches behind herself, the knot in her chest relaxing ever so slightly when Severus immediately takes her hand. “Ron, please,” she begins, fully prepared to beg if it means she doesn’t lose her best friend over this.

 

Ron stares them down for another minute - which feels more like a lifetime - but whatever battle is raging inside of him finally concludes, and he deflates with a heavy sigh. “It’s okay, Harry has already given me the talk,” he says with a slow wave of his hand in their direction. “If he makes you happy, then I guess I have to be happy for you.”

 

“Wait...seriously?” Hermione can’t quite believe it’s really going to be this easy.

 

“You might have not been...you know...before, but it’s pretty obvious you two have been heading in this direction for a while.” Ron frowns, nose wrinkling in distaste. “He does actually make you happy, right?”

 

“He does,” Hermione twists to smile up at Severus as she replies. Severus blinks slowly down at her, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards seemingly of its own accord.

 

“Fine. Okay,” Ron says in a tone that sounds distinctly not okay. “But you-” his voice increases in pitch again as he points an accusing finger past Hermione at Severus. “If you ever hurt her, in any way, I swear to you, they’ll never find your body.” 

 

Hermione’s chest tightens again as her gaze darts between the two men. Severus has never been the sort of person to take threats well, least of all those coming from a despised former-student.

 

Severus bows his head sagely. “If I ever do anything to hurt Hermione, I would consider your actions justified.”

 

Ron’s eyes widen in shock, eyebrows shooting into his hairline, and Hermione thinks she probably looks similar. Of all of the responses Severus could have given, she certainly hadn’t been expecting that.

 

“I...fine,” Ron stammers, clearly thrown completely off guard by Severus’s easy acquiescence. “Then I suppose you two have my blessing.”

 

His words sounds entirely forced, but Hermione finally allows herself to relax. Ron has always been a man of his word, so if he says he’s okay with the two of them, then he will be. Eventually. She nods her silent thanks to her friend as she turns back to Severus, determinedly ignoring the gagging sounds coming from the other side of the room as she stands on tiptoes to resume their interrupted kiss.

 

* * *

 

“You’re here.” Hermione can’t quite hide the surprise in her voice as she draws up short in the doorway to the library. 

 

“You’re late,” Severus counters, not looking up from the stack of parchment in front of him on the long table they’ve claimed for themselves these past few months.

 

Hermione frowns, crossing her arms in front of her. “Ten minutes. Ten minutes hardly matters when there’s nobody waiting for you to arrive. What are you doing here?”

 

Severus at least has the decency to look embarrassed as he finally turns to face Hermione. “Ah, well,” he begins, a faint flush of pink dusting his cheeks as he focuses on a spot just past Hermione’s left ear. “Now that our misunderstanding has been cleared, I thought we might resume where we left off with our investigations?”

 

“Misunderstanding,” Hermione says faintly. “That’s what we’re calling it now?” She raises an eyebrow at Severus, who flushes a darker shade of pink but doesn’t say anything else. She waits a beat longer, a small part of her enjoying seeing the man so out of his depth, but quickly takes pity on him.

 

“Okay,” she says, crossing the room to sit down next to him. “Let me show you what I covered this past week.”

 

“You still came here? On your own?”

 

“Of course,” Hermione focuses on arranging the books in front of her rather than turning to see Severus’s expression. “Voldemort wasn’t exactly going to stop his plans of world domination just because we were having a spat now was he?”

 

Severus barks out a sharp laugh, and when Hermione chances a quick glance at him his expression is soft. “Right you are,” he says, shifting his chair slightly closer so that he can peer at her notes. “Please, do proceed.”

 

Hermione smiles as she turns back to the desk, ignoring the butterflies that spring to life in her chest at their close proximity. “Well, I started off looking into those herbal toxins from South America we read about, but those proved to be something of a dead end. It gave me the idea to look into other regional toxins, though, which led me to this interesting fungal spore that only grows in County Clare in West Ireland.”

  
“Ireland, you say?”

 

“You know the Pixie clans have been wreaking havoc on wizarding communities there recently. I think they’ve been using this spore as a hallucinogenic agent when causing their mayhem.”

 

“So your plan is to send the Dark Lord on a bad trip?”

 

Hermione glares at Severus, only just resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at him. “Hallucinations aside, the spore itself is relatively harmless in the long term. However, St Mungo’s has seen a recent influx of patients from the area with particularly aggressive fevers. It appears that a side effect of the spore is an elevated body temperature, with a resistance to all the usual forms of magical regulation.”

 

Severus hums as he drags her notes closer to him, one long finger tapping at his lower lip as he quickly scans the pages. “You’re thinking that if we combine the spore with some form of combustible toxin…”

 

Hermione can’t help the wide grin that spreads across her face. “I love it when we’re on the same page,” she says, casting  _ Accio _ to grab a few more books off the shelves. “I’ve already come up with a shortlist.”

 

Severus hums again, pushing out his chair so he can stand up. “This sounds like something we’ll need caffeine for. One moment, I’ll get us some tea from the kitchen.” 

  
“Darjeeling for me, please,” Hermione says, not looking up from her notes.

 

“All this time, and she still thinks I need reminding.” Severus’s voice is fond even as it holds its teasing edge. “One of these days I’ll bring you Earl Grey, just to see how you react.”

 

“I didn’t realize you were so unattached to your private parts,” Hermione replies, turning to smile saccharine-sweetly up at him.

 

Severus laughs, his expression carefree in a way Hermione doesn’t often see on the man. Seemingly without thinking, he bends and places a soft kiss on her forehead.

 

The world screeches to a crashing halt with Severus’s lip still pressed to her skin.  Hermione’s heart jumps into her throat as Severus freezes - apparently only just realising what he’s done - then jerks backward sharply.

 

“Forgive me,” he says brusquely, one hand coming up to trace almost unthinkingly along his mouth. “I don’t know what came over me.”

 

“I…” Hermione stutters, mind still whirring and catching over the frankly unprecedented show of affection from the man. “No, it’s okay.” She coughs sharply, her heart slowly settling back into its normal position in her chest. “It- it was nice.”

 

“It was?” 

 

“Of course,” Hermione’s brain finally catches up to the situation, and promptly starts to wonder how this has even become an issue. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

“I…” Severus’s expression swiftly morphs from horrified to embarrassed. “I don’t know.” 

 

Hermione tries very hard not to smile at Severus’s lost expression, feeling that it probably wouldn’t be appreciated given the situation. “You’re always welcome to be affectionate with me Severus. If you want to be, I mean.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.” 

 

Silence falls between them, and Hermione gets the sense that this is a milestone much bigger than a simple forehead kiss. Finally Severus coughs roughly, shaking his head as if to clear it of whatever thoughts are still lingering there. “Right. Tea. Back in a flash.” He pauses, then steps forward, dropping another kiss to Hermione’s hairline before practically disapparating out of the room.

 

Hermione has just about gotten her smile under control by the time he returns.

 

* * *

 

Hermione yawns and stretches, her back giving a satisfying crack as she twists from side to side. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that last bit?”

 

Severus covers his own yawn with one hand, using his other to cast a  _ Tempus _ in front of him. “It can wait until tomorrow,” he says, voice rough with tiredness. “We appear to have skipped past late night and ploughed straight through into early morning.” 

 

“Seriously?” 

 

“It appears so.”

 

Hermione groans, pillowing her head on her hands. “How about I just sleep here? Bed seems awfully far away right now.”

 

Severus chuckles softly as he stands up. “Your back will not thank you for that decision, I assure you.”

 

Hermione groans again, slowly pushing herself upright before scrubbing at her face with her sleeve. “Fine. Fine. I’m going.”

  
“I’ll see you tomorrow at Nine AM sharp. Unless-”

 

Hermione turns in confusion as Severus sharply cuts himself off. He looks surprisingly conflicted, like a part of him still wants to say whatever he stopped himself from saying. “Unless?” she prompts.

 

Severus jerks at the sound of her voice, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, a couple of false starts before he slowly asks “Unless you would perhaps like to join me in my rooms?”

 

Hermione’s whole body goes rigid, her eyes widening in shock at the offer. What on earth is he implying? He can’t possibly mean  _ that _ , can he?

 

“Just to sleep,” Severus quickly clarifies, his voice catching slightly around the edges. “Of course I would not expect...anything more from you.”

 

“Oh,” Hermione instantly relaxes at the clarification. Now that he mentions it, not sleeping alone sounds...kind of nice, actually. The nights are always the hardest, when there are less external distractions and only her thoughts for company, and an external distraction in the form of Severus Snape does sound awfully appealing. 

 

Of course, it would be completely unfair of her to take him up on his offer, what with how badly she tends to sleep nowadays. They’re both going to get so little sleep tonight as it is, she can’t possibly deprive him of what he  _ will _ get. 

 

Severus obviously takes her silence as a rejection, as his expression immediately turns pained. “Forgive me,” he says, “my suggestion was completely out of line, I should not have even asked.”

 

“No!” Hermione hastily stands up, one hand reaching out as if she can physically stop his train of thought. “I mean...It’s not that I don’t want to.”

 

Severus pauses, brow furrowing questioningly. “You do?”

 

Hermione winces internally. She really thought she was going to be able to avoid telling Severus about this particular indignity. “I still get nightmares, of that night,” she admits quietly. “They wake me up. Loudly.”

 

Severus blinks slowly at her, taking a moment to process her words. “And that means you can’t join me because?”

 

“It happens most nights, every night really. It’s not fair on you to have be woken up by my screaming at some ridiculous hour of the morning.”

 

Severus blinks at her again, then exhales heavily. “Hermione, I assure you, of all the things that wake me up nowadays, your voice would be a blessed relief.”

 

Hermione frowns, wondering if she’s misunderstood. “You get them too?”

 

“Altogether too often. Why do you think you kept finding me in the kitchen in the small hours?” Severus quirks a rueful smile at her. “If you are saying no because you do not feel comfortable joining me, then that is of course understandable. But if you are saying no out of concern for my well-being, I assure you, I will sleep infinitely better with you by my side.”

 

Hermione’s heart skips a beat, and she can’t help the smile that sneaks across her features. “Okay,” she replies before she has a chance to second guess herself. “Okay, let’s do it.”

 

“Really?” Severus sounds like he can’t quite believe she actually said yes.

 

“Really,” Hermione replies. “I mean...If you still want me to.”

 

“But of course.”

 

“Good.” Hermione hesitantly shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Now that they’ve both agreed they want the same thing, she’s not quite sure where to go next. “So, I guess I’ll get ready for bed and then head over to your room?”

 

“Try not to take too long,” Severus says wryly as he holds open the door for her. “At this rate the Owls are going to retire before we do.”

 

* * *

 

Hermione stares at herself in the mirror, plucking absently at one of her wayward curls. She’s dressed in her warmed, fluffiest pyjamas, ones that Molly made her for Christmas a few years back. They hardly cry out ‘first night with a lover’, but when she’d returned to her room and started getting ready, she’d found that she needed the extra comfort of the weighty material. 

 

“Are you sure you don’t want just a touch of rouge?” Her mirror suggests for the twentieth time. “Just a little something to make those cheeks pop?”

 

“Severus has seen me at my worst,” Hermione replies, ostensibly to the mirror but really more to herself. “He doesn’t need me to be at my best tonight.”

 

“As long as you’re sure, dearie.”

 

“I’m sure,” Hermione says, jutting her chin forward determinedly and nodding once to herself in the mirror. “Okay, let’s do this.”

 

“Remember, a lady tells a story just as much with what she doesn’t say,” the mirror calls unhelpfully after her as she turns and marches out of her room.

 

Severus answers on the second knock, the door swinging open rapidly like he’s been waiting just on the other side of the threshold for her. He’s dressed in the same black nightwear that threw her for such a loop before, but this time rather than being surprising it’s reassuring; backing up Severus’s promise of nothing more than sleep. 

 

“Hello,” Hermione says awkwardly, unsure where to land her gaze. Severus blinks slowly at her, like he can’t quite believe she’s really here. “May I come in?”

 

“Oh!” Severus jerks into action, stepping aside and gesturing towards her. “Yes, please do.”

 

Hermione takes a deep breath as she steps over the threshold, her heart beating wildly in her chest. This somehow feels like so much more than just a single night’s sleep.

 

“Would you like anything to drink? A nightcap maybe?” Severus runs a hand through his hair, strands falling across his eyes in a way that he would never allow to happen during the day. Hermione feels like she’s been granted access so some secret, hidden form of the man, that only a handful have looked upon before now.

 

“No, thank you,” she practically whispers, unable to take her eyes off him. “I think I’d probably just fall asleep in my drink.”

 

“Quite possibly,” Severus says with a soft smile. “Bed, then?”

 

“Do you have a side?” Hermione asks as they both move to the far end of the room where a large, four-poster bed is situated. A part of Hermione has to admit she’d half expected the covers to be black, but instead they’re a warm, inviting blue.

 

“I’m afraid I’m not very accustomed to sharing a bed,” Severus admits as he turns down the edge of the duvet. “You may wake to find me sprawled right across the middle.”

 

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” Hermione says with a chuckle as she climbs into the near side. “As long as you don’t kick in your sleep.” She pauses, raising an eyebrow at him. “You don’t, do you?”

 

“Not as far as I’m aware,” Severus replies as he joins her in bed. “But you have permission to _ Petrificus _ me if you find that I do.”

 

“Would I do such a thing?” Hermione asks as she gets comfortable. A single raised eyebrow from Severus makes her wonder just how many of her schoolhood hijinks he’d been aware of, but she decides not to poke that particular hornet’s nest just yet.

 

Severus settles on his back, gaze fixed on the canopy above them. He pauses for a moment, then slowly lifts his arm in invitation. Hermione stares at the space he’s made by his side, and finds she doesn’t even need to think about it before slipping into his embrace.

 

Severus’s arm falls lightly around her shoulders, and Hermione practically melts into his side. His body is warm, and firm, and comforting, and she can already feel her eyelids drooping as the overwhelming sense of  _ safety _ envelops her. She just about hears a whispered “Goodnight, Hermione,” before sleep completely claims her.   
  
It’s the first time in a very long time that she sleeps the whole way through the night.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sleeping with Severus.”

 

Eloise stares at Hermione with the expression she uses when she’s trying very hard not to react to something Hermione has just said. “Care to elaborate on that?”

 

“Not, _sleeping_ _with_ sleeping,” Hermione clarifies, fully aware of how ridiculous she sounds. “We share a bed, to sleep. Just sleep.”

 

“Okay,” Eloise says slowly. “And how are you finding that?”

 

“Well, I still get nightmares,” Hermione admits, “but it’s so much easier to get back to sleep afterwards when I knows he’s next to me. I’ve been getting more sleep, and better sleep, than I have in a very long time.”

 

Eloise hums, tapping her quill softly against the pad of parchment in her lap. “You sound conflicted.”

 

“Well I mean... I shouldn’t really be jumping into bed with men so soon after…” Hermione trails off, chewing her lower lip as her gaze darts around the office. 

 

“Does sleeping with Severus make you uncomfortable?”

 

“No, not at all. But it should, right?” Hermione flails her hands halfheartedly in her lap. “It’s only been a few months since I...since they…” she cuts herself off with an angry growl. “I can’t even say what happened to me! There’s no way I should be comfortable sharing a bed with someone else right now.”

 

Eloise tips her head to the side as she considers Hermione’s outburst. “If this is working for you, and you are happy doing it, then why not take comfort where you can find it?”

 

“But it shouldn’t be working for me, that’s the point.”

 

“You keep using those words, ‘should’, ‘shouldn’t’.” Eloise says, raising one eyebrow at Hermione. “Is there some rulebook to surviving trauma that I don’t know about?” 

 

“No but…” Hermione starts then stops, knowing full well she doesn't have a valid rebuttal.

 

“There’s no right or wrong way to heal,” Eloise says gently, repeating something she’s told Hermione many times before. 

 

“I wish there were,” Hermione counters, crossing her arms in front of herself somewhat petulantly. “Just give me a step by step guide I can work though, and at the end of it I’m fixed.”

 

Eloise laughs softly. “If only it were that easy.”

 

“What about a written test? I’ve never failed one of those in my life.”

 

“Speaking of, how did you find the reading I gave you last week?”

 

Hermione’s ears prick up excitedly. “Is there going to be a test on  _ that _ ?”

 

* * *

 

Hermione yawns and stretches, toes curling into the sheets underneath her. “Morning,” she says groggily, rolling onto her side to smile up at Severus.

 

Severus wrinkles his nose and smacks his lips, and Hermione’s grin grows at the now-familiar gesture. “Morning,” he replies, drawing her closer into his body and pressing a soft kiss to her waiting lips. “How did you sleep?”

 

“Good, I think,” Hermione says, nuzzling at his jawline with her nose. “I think I woke up at about three, but I don’t really remember it.”

 

Severus murmurs some vague noises of approval, eyelids already drooping. Hermione slaps his chest playfully. “No going back to sleep,” she chides. “Today’s the day we start brewing.”

 

Severus opens one eye, and Hermione can’t help wondering how he still manages to look so archly disdainful even when half asleep. “Today is the day we  _ consider _ starting brewing.” He corrects. “Once I am satisfied of your ability not to blow us all up.”

 

“Oh please,” Hermione says, “You’ve never had a better apprentice than me.”

 

“Hmmm,” is Severus’s only reply. It’s not an outright denial though, so Hermione decides to count it as the affirmation that it so clearly should be.

 

It takes a fair bit more chiding, but eventually they both make it out of bed. “I’ll see you in the library in fifteen?” Hermione asks, pausing in the doorway. She’s still not quite comfortable getting changed in Severus’s rooms, so she always returns to her own quarters in the morning to get ready.

 

“Fifteen,” Severus agrees, stealing another quick kiss from her as he heads towards his bathroom. 

 

She’s dressed and halfway to the library when the wards around the house chime someone’s arrival. It takes Hermione a moment to remember that Harry is due home today after a week away on some secret errand for McGonagall, but when she does her face breaks into a wide smile. She immediately changes direction, meeting Ron at the top of the stairs, and they trade a knowing look before bolting down the stairs towards the front door.

 

It always feels wrong when one of them goes on a mission without the other two.

 

“Harry, is that you?” She calls out as she rounds the corner, and promptly draws up short in horror.

 

Her heart stutters, then starts beating triple time. White noise sounds in her ears and the edges of her vision starts to go fuzzy. 

 

It is Harry, but he’s not alone. Standing next to him, gripping his hand like it’s the only thing keeping him from bolting straight back out the door, is none other than Draco Malfoy.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two and a bit weeks between updates, what is this nonsense! Sorry everyone for the cliffhanger on the last chapter there, I hope you all consider this a satisfactory resolution!

Hermione’s wand is in her hand with barely a conscious thought. Rapid movement at her side lets her know that Ron has done the same, but all her attention is fixed on the shock of white-blonde hair in front of her. 

 

She can still see that hair peeking out from behind a Death Eater mask. Inching closer towards her. Moving up the line to have his turn.

 

“What is he doing here?” Her words are barely a whisper, but they reverberate around the silent hallway like they’ve been shouted.

 

“Hermione.” Harry takes a step forward, letting go of Draco to hold his hands up in front of him. “Hermione, it’s okay.”

 

“What. Is. He. Doing. Here?” Hermione enunciates slowly, sparks erupting from the tip of her wand as Harry takes another step forward and places himself in front of - in front of! - her attacker.

 

“He’s one of the good guys now. I’m vouching for him.” Harry’s expression is so open, so genuine, that Hermione wants to scream. She very nearly does.

 

“He’s lying to you,” she hisses viciously instead. “Whatever he’s said, whatever bullshit story he’s spun. It’s a lie.”

 

“Come on, mate,” Ron adds, sounding completely incredulous at Harry’s staunch defence of their enemy.

 

“He’s who McGonagall sent me to fetch,” Harry continues earnestly, still positioning himself between Hermione and her target, and for a moment she considers hexing Harry just to get him out of the way. 

 

“Get him out of here,” she warns, her whole body vibrating with barely repressed rage. “I’m not joking, Harry.”

 

“Mal- Draco has been feeding us information about Voldemort’s movements for weeks. He’s the reason we knew about the Cardiff attacks.”

 

“He raped me!” The words spill from Hermione’s lips before she can stop them, and the whole world instantly goes very, very still. Next to her, Ron makes a sound like a wounded hippogriff, but Hermione’s attention is entirely fixed on Harry, and the man cowering behind him. 

 

“Wha-” Harry starts, slack-jawed and blinking owlishly behind his glasses as his brain slowly processes her outburst. Finally her words hit home, and with an enraged roar he spins to stand on Hermione’s other side, finally joining Hermione and Ron in levelling his wand at the Death Eater.

 

“Hermione,” Draco says quietly, his voice breaking over the syllables of her name.

 

“Don’t you dare,” Harry spits, sounding oddly heartbroken around the edges of his rage. “Is it true?”

 

“I’ll kill him,” Ron seethes from Hermione’s other side. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard him so furious, not even when he found out about Scabbers’s real identity. “I’m going to murder him.”

 

“You’ll have to get in line,” Hermione feels strangely calm as she finally levels her wand at Draco’s heart. It feels fitting, she thinks. First the father, now the son.

 

“I swear, I didn’t…” 

 

“Didn’t what? Didn’t want to do it? Didn’t take pleasure in it?” Hermione spits. “You can’t lie to me, Malfoy. I was there, remember?”

 

“I didn’t touch you!” Draco slumps to his knees, head in his hands, as sobs wrack his frame. “I didn’t touch you that night. Please,  _ please _ , you have to believe me.”

 

“I don’t have to do anything,” Hermione counters coldly, but even as she says it an inkling of doubt creeps into her mind. She remembers a lot of faces coming at her that night, but she only really remembers seeing Draco on the outskirts.

 

“I would never,” Draco gasps around his tears. “I could never do something like that.”

 

“Your father didn’t seem to think you would have any issues with it.” Hermione argues  viciously. “He seemed to think that his progeny would have no problem  _ rising _ to the occasion, as it were.”

 

“I had no idea we... _ they _ ...did things like that,” Draco insists, still on his knees in front of her. “I’ve never...Father didn’t tell me it would be like that.”

 

“So what, you realised that magical terrorism isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and you just upped and left?” Hermione lets out a derisive snort. “You don’t truly expect us to believe that do you?” 

 

“As soon as The Dark Lo- Vol- You-Know-Who allowed us to leave, I apparated as far away as I could possibly get,” Draco talks to the floor, to the tips of Hermione’s sock-clad feet. “I found the dirtiest, roughest looking pub I could find and hoped I could get drunk enough to pick a fight with the wrong sort of wizard before father found me.” He pauses, eyes flicking up briefly before dropping back down again. “Potter found me instead.”

 

A pained whimper sounds from Harry next to her. “That was  _ Hermione _ you were talking about that night?”

 

“You told him?!” All of a sudden Hermione feels very faint. No, Harry can’t know. He can’t know about every awful, sick thing she endured that night. 

 

“I didn’t say it was you.” Draco’s voice cracks pitifully as he hastens to explain. “I didn’t use your name.”

 

“But you told him everything that happened to me?” Draco’s silence is answer enough, and Hermione feels the bottom drop out of her stomach as she slowly turns to face Harry. She’s never seen her friend look so horrified, so aghast, and she feels a small piece of her heart crumple in response. 

 

He’ll never look at her the same way again, she’s sure of it.

 

“Hermione.” Harry sounds like he’s about to be sick. 

 

“Don’t,” Hermione cuts him off urgently. “Please, don’t.” 

 

“But...Hermione…”

 

Hermione whirls back towards Draco, levelling her wand at him with renewed purpose. She might not be able to deal with Harry right now, but she can deal with this. “Even if you didn’t take part, you still stood by and watched.” She takes a slow step towards the Death Eater. Her vision starts to blur as tears fill her eyes, and her wand starts to shake in her grip. “If you’re one of the good guys now, then why didn’t you stop them? Why didn’t you  _ help _ me?”

 

“How could I?” Draco asks plaintively. “It would have been one against a hundred.”

 

“You could have tried!” Hermione’s shouts, letting go of what little composure she’s maintained until now. “You could have done something,  _ anything _ , rather than just standing back and letting all those men do what they did!”

 

“Hermione.” Ron’s voice is thick with emotion behind her. “Is that...did they really…?”

 

Hermione chokes out a sob, covering her mouth with her spare hand. No, no this wasn’t what she wanted. This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

 

She can’t be here anymore. Not with Ron and Harry knowing her secret. Not with  _ him _ still in the hallway, playing the part of a broken man in need of forgiveness. With a sharp gasp she sheathes her wand, then spins on her heel and dashes back up the stairs to her bedroom. She slams the door behind her, locking and warding it for good measure, then slumps against the wall and breaks into desperate, heaving sobs.

 

* * *

 

After a while - Hermione really couldn’t say how long - she hears soft knocking at her door.

 

“Hermione? Can we come in?” Ron’s voice is gentle, hesitant. So unlike his usual bravado. 

 

“Go away,” Hermione calls back through the wooden barrier, arms wrapped protectively around her knees as she sits huddled on the floor. She’s not ready to see the disgust that will be written so clearly on their faces. Not now, maybe not ever.

 

“Please, ‘mione. We won’t stay long if you don’t want us to.” Ron presses. “Harry and I...we’d really like to make sure you’re alright.”

 

Hermione can’t help huffing out a wet laugh at that. She’s not alright. She hasn’t been alright in a very long time. Still, it doesn’t sound like the boys are going to leave any time soon, so with a heavy sigh she stands and banishes her wards, taking a moment to compose herself before slowly unlocking the door. The bolt slides back with a heavy thunk that seems to reverberate around the room and through her whole body.

 

The door swings open to reveal her two friends standing side by side, both wearing matching expressions of heartbreak and guilt.

 

“Hermione,” Harry begins, his words thick with emotion. “We- I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

 

“It’s okay,” Hermione feels like her response is coming from very far away, not from her own mouth at all. 

 

“It’s not okay,” Ron counters. “We should have noticed, should have realised that something wasn’t right after you came back.”

 

“I didn’t want you to know.” Hermione stands to the side and wearily gestures for the boys to come in. “That was sort of the point.”

 

“But why?” Ron says, turning towards her and shifting his weight from foot to foot like he’s only just resisting the urge to pace. “We’re you’re friends ‘mione, why didn’t you want to tell us?”

 

“It would have just upset you.”

 

“Hermione!” Ron throws his hands up in the air. “What the bloody hell?”

 

“It was done, it was over,” Hermione insists, her voice raising in pitch to match Ron’s. “There was no point making a big deal out of it.”

 

“But we could have been there for you, helped you. That’s what the three of us  _ do _ , Hermione.”

 

“I didn’t want you to look at me differently!” Hermione finally lets go of the secret she’s been desperately clinging onto for far too long. “If you knew what happened, what they did to me. You would look at me like I was damaged, like I was dirty and used and I couldn’t have you knowing, I just  _ couldn’t _ .”

 

“What...oh,  _ Hermione _ ,” Harry finally contributes, sounding completely exhausted. “Of course we wouldn’t have.”

 

“I can see it in your faces now!” Hermione feels her heart-rate start to spike, as she points a finger at them accusingly. “You’re looking at me like I’m...like I’m this broken creature you have no idea how to fix.”

 

“We’re looking at you like a  _ friend _ who has been through something horrific and we haven’t been there for.” Ron’s trademark temper finally starts to make an appearance, and its strangely comforting in its familiarity. “Merlin’s beard, ‘mione, do you really think that badly of us?”

 

“What? No, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” Hermione only just resists the urge to roll her eyes, and for a moment it’s like they’re back at Hogwarts arguing over something completely mundane and not this catastrophic, life changing event of hers.

 

“It sounds like that’s what you’re saying.” Ron counters, running his hand through his hair so that it spikes upwards haphazardly. “You’re saying that you couldn’t trust us not to be dicks about this, that you thought we would hurt you even more than you’re already hurting.”

 

“Oh don’t be melodramatic,” Hermione crosses her arms angrily in front of her. “I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

 

“No. You haven’t.” Harry doesn’t sound angry, just defeated, and it knocks all of Hermione’s righteous fury right out of her sails. “You’ve been doing about as fine as I was after I left that damn tri-wizard maze.”

 

“I-” Hermione wants to argue, she wants to so badly. But she can’t, not with Harry looking at her like he can see straight through her.

 

“I get it, Hermione,” Harry continues, sitting down on her bed with a heavy thump, like he can’t bare his soul and keep himself upright at the same time. “I get how it feels to survive, and feel like maybe it wasn’t worth it. That maybe the cost of living is a price you’re not sure you’re willing to pay.”

 

“I-” Hermione starts again. Sometimes she forgets that Harry lives with the spectre of the wizard who killed his parents hiding in the recesses of his brain. Forgets that he carries with him the weight of other people’s sacrifices, that he’s carried them since he was only a child. Of everyone who might understand what it feels like to be at Voldemort’s continued mercy, it’s Harry. And yet...

 

“No.” Hermione’s voice is barely a whisper. “No, Harry, I’m sorry but you don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to- to have to endure the things I did. It’s not the same.”

 

“That’s true,” Harry admits, talking quietly to his hands. “Voldemort has taken a lot from me over the years, but not that.” He pauses, clearly taking a moment to collect himself before turning his gaze back on Hermione. “But if he had. If that had been my fate the night he came back. Would you have looked at  _ me _ any differently?”

 

With that one simple question, Hermione breaks. 

 

Her entire body starts to shudder as the tears flow freely down her cheeks. It feels like a dam has finally broken somewhere inside of her and everything she’s kept so tightly restrained is now coursing through her veins, setting her synapses alight with the weight of previously repressed emotions.

 

She weeps. For her lost self, for the person she was before that she’ll never be again. For the days and weeks she’s lost to shame and guilt and self-loathing. For the utter indignity of everything that happened to her, that night and all the days after. For the unnecessary rift she’s managed to cause between herself and those she cares most about in this world.

 

Long arms envelop her, and all of a sudden she’s surrounded by the familiar scent of one of her best friends, and that only makes her weep harder. She cries into Ron’s shoulder, into the thick wool of a Weasley sweater that Ron claims he hates but still wears most weeks.

 

“It’s okay,” Ron soothes into her ear, voice thick like he’s probably crying alongside her. He slowly guides them towards the bed and sits her down next to Harry, who’s  _ definitely _ crying, and for a while the three of them just sit bundled together like they did when they were young and the world around them shifted from exciting to just a bit too terrifying.

 

“We really are sorry, ‘mione,” Ron finally says, voice scratchy. “For everything that you had to go through, and that we couldn’t be there for you.”

 

“And it really is okay,” Hermione replies, wiping at her face with her sleeve. “Severus has been amazing, and...I’ve started talking to someone at St. Mungos.”

 

“That’s good,” Ron sounds genuinely relieved. “That’s really good. And you know that you  _ can _ come to us, right? Even if you just need distracting for a while.”

 

“I know,” Hermione admits. “I guess I forgot that for a little bit, but I do know.” She flicks her gaze from Ron to Harry, finding both of them looking at her with equally earnest expressions. “And no more secrets, from any of us, okay?”

 

Harry exhales heavily, suddenly looking very guilty indeed. “Then I guess there’s something else I need to tell you guys.”

 

“You’re sleeping with Draco?” Hermione means to sound teasing, but she somehow ends up sounding more bitter than anything.

 

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise. “How did you know?” he asks as Ron splutters indignantly next to her.

 

“You mean aside from the whole hand holding business? ‘ _ He’s one of the good guys now. I’m vouching for him.’” _ Hermione does her best to imitate her friend. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re not as subtle as you think you are, Harry.”

 

Harry groans, sounding truly mortified. “Did you know?” He peers round Hermione to ask Ron.

 

Ron holds his hands up in innocence. “Hey, I thought you were still hung up on that wizard you met at the pub…” He trails off as the pieces fall into place. “That was  _ Malfoy _ ?”

 

Harry buries his face in his hands. “Oh Godric,” he moans forlornly. “Kill me now.”

 

“Sorry mate,” Ron reaches around Hermione to pat Harry on the shoulder. “Even the boy-who-lived has to have a shocker from time to time.”

 

“Well either way, it’s past tense now. I was sleeping with him. Not any more.”

 

“Why?” Hermione can’t help asking.

 

“Seriously?” Harry raises an eyebrow at her. “You don’t really think I’d carry on with him after today do you?”

 

Hermione’s heart rate suddenly spikes as their topic of conversation reminds her of something rather important. “Wait a minute,” she says, looking quickly between Ron and Harry. “What did you do with Draco?”

 

Harry and Ron trade guilty looks. “We...ah…” Harry begins, looking slightly abashed. “We left him with Snape.”

 

“Oh.” Hermione isn’t quite sure how to process that revelation. “That’s...well that probably hasn’t gone well for Draco.”

 

“Good,” Ron says darkly, squinting angrily. “The weasel deserves everything that comes to him, I say.”

 

“He’s trying, Ron,” Harry says, sounding pained. “Or at least, I thought he was.”

 

“We should probably check on them,” Hermione says reluctantly, slowly detangling herself from the other two and pushing herself up to standing. “At the very least we should make sure there’s not too much for the elves to clean up.”

 

Ron’s surprised bark of laughter is like music to Hermione’s ears, and as she leaves her room flanked by Ron and Harry on either side, for the first time since laying eyes on Draco she starts to feel like everything might actually be okay.

 

* * *

 

To her surprise, Draco is slightly dishevelled but still in one piece when they enter the room where Ron and Harry left him earlier. Severus still has his wand trained on him, and though his expression promises murder, he doesn’t appear to have exacted anything too irreversible just yet.

 

“He’s telling the truth then,” Hermione says, quickly reaching the only conclusion that would result in Draco still being alive under Severus’s wand. “He didn’t touch me that night.”

 

“The boy never was very good at Legilimency,” Severus says dryly, shooting a few sparks at Draco’s feet as he speaks. Draco yelps and jumps hastily away from the unidentified magic.

 

“Doesn’t mean he’s innocent though,” Ron says, turning his own wand on Draco.

 

“For once I actually agree with you, Mr Weasley,” Severus says, ignoring Ron’s double-take at his words. “But Hermione should be the one to decide his fate.” 

 

He sheaths his wand, then turns and strides over to the doorway where Hermione is still standing. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice immediately as gentle as his actions as he cups her face in his hands. 

 

“I am,” Hermione says, standing on tiptoes to steal a reassuring kiss from him. “I think.”

 

“You don’t have to deal with this now. I am more than happy to keep Malfoy contained somewhere until you are ready.”

 

“No,” Hermione takes a deep, fortifying breath, reaching up to clasp one of Severus’s hands in her own. “I need to do this now, or I never will.”

 

Severus nods his approval, and steps to the side to allow Hermione to face Draco. The younger wizard looks so pathetic, so broken, Hermione almost can’t believe this face was hiding behind one of those awful masks that still haunts her dreams.

 

“I don’t feel sorry for you, and I don’t forgive you.” Her voice is surprisingly calm as she takes a step towards Draco, one hand still gripping Severus’s firmly. “If that’s what you were looking for by coming here, you don’t have it.”

 

“It’s not.” Draco meets her gaze, even though it seems physically painful for him to do so. “I want to make amends for what I’ve done, in any way I can.”

 

“I killed your father. I don’t regret it.” Hermione doesn’t quite know why she says it. Part of her wants to see how Draco reacts. Part of her wants to see how the rest of the room does.

 

Draco’s expression crumples for a brief instant before he manages to compose himself. “He deserved it,” he says firmly, determinedly maintaining eye contact with Hermione as he speaks. “For what he did to you - and others probably - he deserved it.”

 

Hermione slowly turns to look at her friends. Ron looks viciously pleased with her admission, Harry looks a little green. They both nod at her in support though, and Hermione feels a knot she didn’t even know was there loosen in her chest. 

 

“Okay,” she swiftly decides, turning back towards Draco with renewed purpose. “If you really want to help, here’s what you’re going to do.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers, looks like i owe you another apology for having such a long wait between chapters again! We are ramping up towards the finish line now though, so hopefully I can keep some sort of writing momentum going and not leave it such a long time before the next update. Hope you enjoy this chapter, as always I'd love to know what you think!

“No. Definitely not.”

 

“Harry-”

 

“No, it’s too dangerous.”

 

“Harry, please, think about-”

 

“Not happening. You’ll just have to come up with something else.”

 

“This is the best opportunity we’ve had in ages!” Hermione throws her hands above her head in frustration. “I’m sorry, Harry. I know this is hard to hear, but having Draco gives us an opportunity we simply can’t afford to ignore.”

 

“Draco came here to spy for us, not  _ die _ for us.” Harry counters, pain clouding his features as his gaze darts around the room. “You’re sending him on a suicide mission.”

 

“I promise you, we’ll do everything we can to make sure that isn’t the case,” Hermione tries to assure him, but Harry cuts her off with a derisive laugh. 

 

“Oh please, don’t pretend you’re acting with his best interests at heart.” 

 

“Harry!” Hermione gasps, feeling her heart clench as her friend immediately looks contrite.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologises, eyes dropping to the floor as all the fight suddenly drains from him. “I didn’t mean that, you know I didn’t.” He pauses, giving a heavy sigh that seems to rattle its way through his entire body. “I just...we’ve been on enough reckless adventures in our time to know when something’s a complete lost cause.”

 

“I know it’s hard,” Hermione forces herself to sound appropriately sympathetic as she takes a small, cautious step towards Harry. “Sometimes we have to take these risks though. For the greater good, and all that.”

 

“I’m so fucking sick of hearing that phrase,” Harry says with a defeated huff. “I’ve lost too many people I care about to the damn  _ greater good. _ My parents, Sirius, who else do I have to lose before this bloody war is over?” 

 

“Come on, mate,” Ron steps up to join Hermione in reasoning with their friend. “I know it sounds bad, but this is one of Hermione’s plans. When was the last time she steered us wrong, huh?”

 

“You really want me to answer that?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow archly. “Because a certain occasion in sixth year involving firewhisky and more than one burnt tapestry springs to mind.”

 

“I’m going to choose not to hear that,” Severus interjects dryly as Hermione blushes a violent shade of pink and Ron snorts an unexpected laugh.

 

“Okay, that’s fair,” Ron concedes. “But she’s always come through for us when it actually matters, right?”

 

Harry sighs heavily, knocking his glasses askew as he rubs tiredly at his eyes. “I just didn’t realise that when I said that Draco and I- that we were done. I didn’t realise that I was saying we were done forever.”

 

“I’ll do it.” Draco’s soft voice cuts through the conversation, and four heads turn as one towards its source. Draco looks slightly ashen but fiercely determined as he raises his chin and meets their attention squarely. “Whatever needs to be done, I’ll do it.”

 

Hermione holds Draco’s gaze, all-too aware of her heart pounding erratically in her chest. She knows she should feel some sort of gratitude towards the man, but all she can think is that nothing he ever says or does will come even close to making amends. It feels like it takes every ounce of her willpower to do so, but she forces herself to nod once in acceptance.

 

This small gesture seems to be good enough for Draco, as he jerks his head in response before turning to Severus. “Explain the plan again. Slowly.”

 

Severus clears his throat, visually checking in with Hermione before giving Draco his full attention. “Hermione and I have discovered a fungus that induces extreme fever in its recipient. In its naturally occurring state it is merely resistant to magical intervention, but we believe we have found a way to brew it into a form that will cause any such intervention to actually enhance its effects.”

 

“It’s quite fascinating, really,” Hermione can’t help adding. “You see, the most common antidote for this fungus is a plant that grows in the same area - sort of like how you’ll always find dock leaves near stinging nettles. By brewing a suspension of the fungus and the molecular opposite of this antidote plant, any attempts to counteract the effects of the fungus will be negated and...”

 

“Hermione,” Harry sounds slightly pained as he interrupts. “Can we maybe keep this conversation theory-light for now?

 

“But...I came up with a spell that works just like a muggle microscope,” Hermione protests. Don’t they care about all the work she and Severus have put into this?

 

A warm hand comes down on her shoulder, and Severus’s lips brush against her ear. “I know exactly how brilliant you are,” he says softly. “Even if these imbeciles don’t appreciate it.”

 

“Hey, we heard that!” Ron splutters as Severus straightens up, and Hermione can’t bring herself to stifle her smile.

 

“We have been debating the viability of using this fungus for a while now,” Severus continues, completely ignoring Ron’s vocal indignation. “The two biggest issues we encountered were how best to utilize such short term effects, and how to disseminate the suspension undetected. Neither of these problems we had a solution for. Until today.”

 

“Since the fungus isn’t technically a poison, it’s presence won’t be detected by any of the usual protective charms.” Hermione takes over the explanation. “It can be added to food and it will register as just an another ingredient. Which is exactly what Draco will do when he hosts Voldemort’s annual winter ball.”

 

“I still can’t believe that’s really a thing,” Harry says incredulously.

 

“The Dark Lord has successfully recruited some of society’s oldest and wealthiest families. He knows how best to appeal to their sensibilities.” Severus replies archly. “The Malfoys have hosted the ball for the past six years. WIth Lucius - regrettably indisposed -  his followers will be looking to see if his heir has it in him to take up the mantle.”

 

“Draco gives the suspension to the house elves to cook into to the food.” Hermione continues. “When it takes effect, everyone will naturally try to counteract it with simple temperature reducing spells, which will have the opposite result.”

 

“Everyone assumes everyone else in the room is trying to kill them, mayhem erupts.” Ron completes the narrative, looking slightly in awe. “Brilliant. Bloody Brilliant.”

 

“While Voldemort and his followers are busy trying to work out who has turned against them, Draco will drop the wards on the house, allowing the Order inside to finish the job.”

 

“And what happens to Draco in all of this?” Harry’s serious tone cuts through the growing enthusiasm of the room. “What if Voldemort realises he’s the one responsible?”

 

“We’re hoping that the chaos will protect him,” Hermione says, trying to sound like she means it. “With everyone flinging spells at one another, it’s unlikely that anyone’s first thought will be that it’s something Draco did to the food.”

 

“That seems awfully optimistic.” Harry sounds less than convinced.

 

“No plans are without inherent risk.” Severus steps in this time, allowing Hermione a blessed reprieve from arguing with her friend. “I assure you, we will do everything we can to mitigate those risks while also giving the Order the best chance there is to finish this thing once and for all.”

 

Harry looks like he wants to continue arguing, but Draco cuts in before he gets the chance. “I said I’ll do it, so lets do it,” he says again firmly. He’s looking at Severus and Hermione, but Hermione knows he’s really talking to Harry. 

 

Silence falls, stifling and awkward as the room processes everything that’s been said. Eventually Draco huffs an overbright laugh. “Well fuck it, if I’m going to die then I might as well get in some grade-O banging before I go.” He raises an eyebrow at Harry, who looks faintly mortified. “Want to show me which rooms here are yours, Tiger?”

 

“I...um…” Harry stammers, blinking rapidly behind his glasses as he darts his head between Draco and Hermione. “I don’t know if…”

 

“Oh, just go,” Hermione says, waving a hand tiredly at the two of them. She can let them have this, if it means this war is a step closer to being over.

 

Harry still looks like he’s going to protest, so with a sigh Hermione draws her wand and magically shoves them out the door, closing it behind them with a heavy thunk.

 

She, Ron and Severus all pretend not to hear the second thud of a body hitting the door, and the soft moan that follows.

 

* * *

 

“Do you really think we can trust him? Draco I mean,” Hermione asks later that night as she and Severus climb into their respective sides of the bed.

 

“Trust is a luxury we simply cannot afford to put much stock in any more.” Severus replies as he shifts to get comfortable. “That being said, the boy does seem genuine in his desire to help.”

 

“You don’t think he’s actually changed, do you?” Hermione can’t quite hide her disbelief as she shimmies closer, nudging at Severus’s arm until he lifts it around her shoulders.

 

“It would be hypocritical of me to presume otherwise, given my history.”

 

“That’s different though,” Hermione argues. “You were a double agent.”

 

Severus is silent for a long moment, staring up at the canopy above them. “I wasn’t always,” he finally says, twisting his head so he can stare down at her. “I started off as a true follower, when I was not that much older than Draco. Except I didn’t have the excuse of my father leading me into darkness. I chose that path all by myself.”

 

Hermione doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so she keeps quiet, concentrating on the sound of Severus’s steady heartbeat instead.

 

“Does that bother you?” Severus finally probes.

 

“I don’t think so,” Hermione finds herself replying honestly. “You made a horrible choice, but you self-corrected. I’m sure you’ve done more good for the Order than any evil you did in Voldemort’s service.”

 

“Your sentiment is appreciated, if somewhat naive.” Severus says with a sigh. “I fear I’m still a long way off from atoning for my sins.” He places a finger on Hermione’s lips as she opens her mouth to protest. “I’m not looking for assurances,” he continues with a soft smile. “I know what I am and what I need to do.”

 

“Brew a batch of super-enhanced fungal spores and and burn Voldemort from the inside out?”

 

Severus chuckles at her vivid description. “That’s certainly a good start.” 

 

“I hope we get it finished in time,” Hermione admits, voicing a concern that’s been eating at her since she first proposed their new plan. “Draco says the ball is usually early December, and it’s almost November already.” Her words trigger a sudden realisation inside of her, and she bolts upright, turning to Severus in alarm. “It’s almost November!”

 

“Yes?” Severus says confusedly, shifting to rest on his elbows to match her new height. 

 

“Why are you here?” Hermione asks, waving her hands at Severus to emphasise her point. 

 

“Why am I in here...in my own bed?” Severus replies slowly, only sounding more confused.

 

“Why aren’t you back at Hogwarts? Term started months ago.”

 

“Oh, that.” Severus sounds mildy relieved at the cause of her outburst. “I tendered my resignation in August.”

 

“You did what?!” 

 

“My position at Hogwarts was always primarily to maintain my cover as a spy for the Dark Lord.” Severus explains far too calmly for Hermione’s liking. “Once I was unmasked, there was no more need for me to continue the charade.”

 

“But...Potions,” Hermione replies faintly, feeling like the world has shifted on its axis ever so slightly. “Who will teach Potions now?”

 

“Somebody far more suited to it, I presume,” Severus replies with a small shrug, sliding back down into bed again and holding out his arm to Hermione in invitation. “You can hardly claim I was the most natural of educators.”

 

“You were good at it,” Hermione lies through her teeth as she slowly joins Severus lying down again. Severus snorts disbelievingly, and she swiftly rephrases. “Fine, you weren’t the best teacher I ever had, but I still learnt a lot from you.”

 

“That’s because you were desperate to learn. You would have excelled no matter who was leading the class.” Severus replies, and Hermione thinks she can hear an edge of sorrow in his voice. “I despised teaching, and a generation of students most likely despise the hallowed art of Potions because of it.” He sighs another heavy sigh, arm tightening almost instinctively around Hermione’s shoulders. “Yet one more failing to add to my roster, I suppose.”

 

The pain in Severus’s voice makes Hermione’s heart ache, so she presses a soft kiss to his collarbone and snuggles in closer to his side. “I guess that means you can do anything you want after this war is over. What did you have in mind?”

 

“Now isn’t that the million pound question?” Severus replies with a soft laugh. “Truth be told, I never really expected to survive this far.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“I always knew I’d be exposed at some point. Secrets can only be kept for so long before they come crashing down around us in spectacular fashion. My biggest hope was always that I would go swiftly, with some small bit of dignity left still intact.”

 

“I guess that’s something good that came out of all of this then.” The words taste like ash in Hermione’s mouth. “If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t been...you know...Voldemort might not have decided to let you live.”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Severus says fiercely, twisting to look Hermione dead in the eye. “Don’t think for a second that you have to find meaning in what happened to you. I would have gone willingly to my death if it meant you emerged unscathed. Nothing justifies what those monsters did to you, nothing.”

 

Hermione swallows past the lump that has suddenly formed in her throat. “Well either way, I’m glad you didn’t die,” she whispers, voice wet around the edges. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

 

Severus’s eyes widen infinitesimally, and he gently reaches forward to brush a stray lock of hair out of her face. “I must admit, I’m somewhat glad too,” he replies just as gently before reaching down and pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

 

Hermione instinctively leans into the kiss, her mouth moving against Severus’s in a way that has become comfortingly familiar over the past few weeks. She lets her tongue flick across Severus’s lower lip, and he groans and rolls onto his side, pressing almost needily against her. She runs her hands over his shoulders and down his back, revelling in the feel of firm lines and taut flesh under her fingertips.

 

A growing hardness swells against her thigh, unmistakable in its intent, and Hermione breaks the kiss with a soft gasp. She swallows once, twice, forcing her suddenly racing heartbeat to calm. She knew this was coming - she’s been preparing for it after all - but she didn’t realise it was going to be quite this soon. 

 

Severus strokes his fingers featherlight along her arm and hums in question. “Everything okay, love?”

 

Hermione nods, shuffling to put a bit of space between the two of them before sitting upright. “Yes, everything’s fine, it’s just...” she trails off, realising she’s staring at the duvet rather than her partner. She steels herself, swallowing heavily before forcing herself to meet Severus’s gaze. “I’m not ready for sex yet.”

 

“Naturally,” Severus immediately replies, nothing on his face suggesting that her statement is in any way a surprise. Hermione can’t help frowning; she’d expected at least some sort of questioning.

 

“I’m working on it, though,” she adds, suddenly desperate to make sure Severus knows she hasn’t been just ignoring the issue at hand. “I’ve found a number of tightening spells, and I ordered these muggle devices called Kegels which are supposed to work wonders, and-”  

 

Severus cuts her off with a soft touch to her hand. “I’m afraid now you’ve lost me,” he says, a small furrow of concern appearing between his brows.

 

“You know...to get my body ready for sex.”

 

Severus stares at her, blinking slowly, then huffs a heavy sigh. “It appears we are having somewhat different conversations,” he finally says, shifting to face her properly. “Shall we start again?” 

 

Hermione steels herself, closing her eyes as she recalls all the painfully embarrassing hours she’s spent ensconced in her bathroom recently, cataloguing damage. “The snake,” she says quietly. “It was there for so long, and it was so big. Things are kind of...stretched.” She feels her face flush red with the heat of embarrassment, but she forces herself to continue. “And I know women’s bodies are designed to spring back from childbirth, so I’m sure things will get better eventually. But it’s taking a while.”

 

“Just so I’m clear,” Severus says slowly, reaching forward almost instinctively to take one of Hermione’s hands, like he can’t bear to not be in contact with her while having this conversation. “Your concern is that I will not find your body sufficiently arousing?”

 

“Well it’s hardly going to be good for you if you can’t touch the walls,” Hermione replies petulantly, earning herself a somewhat pained groan from Severus.

 

“Oh, Hermione,” Severus says, thumb stroking a steady rhythm across her knuckles. “That is the absolute least of my concerns.”

 

“It is?” 

 

“Believe me when I say that if and when we engage in such activities, my enjoyment will be solely derived from being with you in such an intimate manner, with you happy and whole and  _ enthusiastically _ committed to the endeavour.”

 

Hermione frowns, slowly picking her way through Severus’s declaration. “But, physically…”

 

“Physically, your body is perfect in whatever form it takes. I would not have you change anything about it for anyone other than yourself.”

 

“Oh,” is all Hermione can think to say, which seems somewhat lacking given everything that’s just been voiced.

 

She had been so sure that this was the root of the discomfort that’s been gnawing at her ever since she and Severus first kissed, that it was a problem she could fix, given enough research and professional expertise. But now Severus is sitting in front of her, with such an earnest expression on his face, telling her that it’s not an issue at all, and she’s honestly not quite sure where to go from here. 

 

“So...do you want to have sex then?”

 

“Now?” Severus raises a questioning eyebrow at her.

 

“Well, why not?” For some reason, Hermione can’t quite make herself meet his eyes as she asks.

 

Severus huffs a soft laugh. “Did you miss the part about being enthusiastically committed?”

 

“I can be enthusiastic,” Hermione argues, plastering a wide smile on her face as she finally meets his gaze.

 

“Hermione, love,” Severus moves from stroking her hand to cupping her face, his expression desperately fond and just a little sad. “I’m not ready either.” 

 

“I...you’re not?”

 

Severus heaves a heavy sigh, letting his hands drop into his lap as he finally lowers his gaze. “I have not been able to take myself in hand since that night.” His voice is stilted and cautious, like he fears rejection in the wake of this confession. “It appears the sound and smells associated with male release are intimately entangled in my brain with memories of that night.”

 

“Oh, Severus,” Hermione’s voice cracks as this time she’s the one to reach forward and take one of his hands in her own. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

 

“It is hardly something one brings up in casual conversation,” Severus replies with a wry, self-deprecating smile. “I must confess, I had assumed that this wouldn’t be a necessary topic of conversation for at least a few months. I sometimes forget that I’m dating a consummate overachiever.”

 

“Don’t act like you’re not exactly the same,” Hermione quips, batting at Severus’s shoulder in mock reproach. Severus chuckles, but his expression is still sad as he catches Hermione’s hand and encloses it between his own. Hermione swallows, completely serious once more. “I guess I just assumed because I could feel...you know...”

 

Severus cocks his head in confusion, and Hermione feels her blush spring to life once more as she nods towards his crotch. Severus tracks Hermione’s gaze, slowly piecing together her meaning. When it all slots into place he laughs a dry, brittle laugh. “Oh. That.”

 

“You seemed to be...enjoying yourself.”

 

Severus snorts in laughter again. “The male sex organ is as dumb as a flobberworm, please do not take its actions as any sort of indication of my true intentions.”

 

Hermione can’t help laughing along with Severus at the picture he’s painted for her. “Duly noted.” She smiles a soft, cautious smile up at him. “Then it’s settled. We’ll wait until we’re both ready.”

 

“An idea as perfect as you are,” Severus agrees, leaning forward to press a light kiss to the tip of her nose. 

 

“I had no idea you were such a sap,” Hermione teases gently, snuggling tightly into his side as they both lie back down again.

 

“Don’t tell anyone, I do have a reputation to uphold after all,” Severus replies, waving his hand lazily to extinguish the lights.

 

Darkness surrounds them, and Hermione feels the calling of sleep start to tug at the edges of her consciousness. Severus’s breathing evens and slows next to her, his body going lax even as his arm stays protectively cradled around her waist.

 

“What if i’m never ready?” Hermione finds herself asking the night, not truly expecting a response from her dozing partner.

 

Severus’s arm tightens around her, and he twists almost instinctively to kiss her curls. “Then I already have more than I could have ever hoped for.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: This chapter was not supposed to exist. In my notes this was basically a very short introductory paragraph before everything that comes next, but apparently Hermione and Severus had other ideas and sometimes there's just no reasoning with the characters you're *supposed* to be in charge of! Hope you all enjoy it though, and thank you so much for your continued lovely comments!

Hermione watches the cauldron in front of her intently, one hand slowly stirring its contents while the other guides her wand in an intricate pattern above its surface. She completes the final incantation and the liquid hisses and bubbles, thickening to an almost solid consistency before relaxing back into its original form.

 

“I think it’s done,” she breathes, her entire body stock still as she stares down at the potion they’ve been trying to successfully brew for the past month. She can’t quite believe that after everything, all the research and investigation and many,  _ many _ failed brews, that it’s finally finished.

 

Severus steps forward to join her, one hand resting on her shoulder as he too inspects their creation. “It certainly appears so,” he says, voice almost as cautious as Hermione’s.

 

“How can we be sure it’s worked?” Hermione asks, gaze still fixed on the cauldron’s glistening contents.

 

“I suppose we shall have to test it,” Severus steps away from her side to collect a ladle and cylindrical vial from a nearby counter. He dips the ladle into the liquid, and pours a small amount into the vial, holding it at eye level to inspect before raising it in mock-toast. “Well, bottoms up.”

 

“Wait!” Hermione practically lunges at Severus as he brings the vial to his lips, closing both of her hands around his to stop him from taking a sip.

 

“Somebody has to drink it, love,” Severus argues even as he allows her to draw the vial down and away from his mouth.

 

“I know that,” Hermione says as she waits for her suddenly pounding heart to return to normal. “But why you? Why do you have to be the one to take the risk?”

 

“As much as I would love to use the Weasley twins as guinea pigs,” Severus says with a wry smile, “it is the responsibility of the brewer to ensure that their creation is fit for purpose.” 

 

“It’s my creation just as much as yours,” Hermione counters, setting her jaw determinedly. “Let me test it.”

 

Severus huffs unhappily, “I would really rather you didn’t.”

 

“So it’s okay for you to risk your life but not me?” Hermione finally lets go of Severus’s hands to cross her arms in front of her chest. “How is that in any way fair?”

 

Severus makes another unhappy noise, but concedes in putting down the vial before digging a hand into one of his robe pockets. “Fine. Toss for it?” he says as he draws out a glistening galleon.

 

Hermione appraises him for a long moment, trying and failing to see the catch, then finally nods curtly. “Okay. I choose heads.”

 

Severus grins, eyes glittering as he flicks the coin above their heads. The gold disc spins effortlessly up and down, landing square in the palm of Severus’s hand. He flips the coin over onto the back of his hand, pausing a beat for dramatic effect before revealing it Dragon-side up.

 

“Tails it is,” Severus says with a satisfied smirk, pocketing the coin and swiftly grabbing the vial off the counter. He raises it again in toast to her, then downs the contents before she can even think to protest the toss.

 

“I don’t know how, but you cheated,” Hermione mutters sullenly, picking up a notebook and jotting down the current time so she can keep an accurate record of the potion’s effects.

 

“Would I do such a thing?” Severus replies entirely too innocently for Hermione’s liking.

 

* * *

 

It takes about half an hour for the potion to take effect; the time delay intentionally added to further protect Draco from undue suspicion. Once it kicks in though, it does so with a vengeance.

 

“It feels like I’m being burned from the inside out,” Severus moans pitifully as Hermione transfigures one of their work seats into a decidedly more comfortable armchair and carefully guides him into it. 

 

“I know, I know,” Hermione says, trying her best to sound appropriately sympathetic as she tucks a blanket around his shivering form. She flicks her wand to run yet another round of diagnostics, confirming that Severus is still just suffering from a particularly vicious fever and not anything more life-threatening, and makes a few more notes on her book. “Forty-five minutes after ingesting the potion, your temperature is holding steady at 39.8.”

 

Severus moans again, slumping deeper into the armchair. “It feels like a hundred and eight” he says forlornly. 

 

Hermione can’t quite stifle her chuckle at the sorry figure the usually formidable Potion’s Master now cuts. “I should have guessed that you would be truly terrible at being ill.”

 

“I’m not ill, i’m  _ poisoned _ ,” Severus hisses, his voice lacking most of its usual bite as he glares up at her from underneath one of Molly’s brightly patterned quilts.

 

“I know, it’s awful isn’t it?” Hermione coos, earning herself another dark glare. “Right, we need to determine how the potion will react to countering spells. I’ll start with  _ Reparifors _ , okay?”

 

“If you must.” Severus sounds completely put-upon, but he pushes the blanket off himself and gets shakily to his feet. “Okay. Do your worst.”

 

“Oh, honey,” Hermione says saccharine sweet as she flicks her wand at him. “You couldn’t handle my worst.”

 

Sure enough, the moment Hermione’s spell hits Severus doubles over with a pained groan. “Oh, Salazar. I take it back.” 

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Hermione apologises, immediately feeling guilty as she helps Severus back into the chair. “I don’t want to make you feel worse, but we have to know how the potion reacts.”

 

“I know, I know,” Severus says, eyes glassy from the fever as he looks up at Hermione, and her heart aches in sympathy for him. “It has to be done.”

 

Hermione casts her diagnostic spells again, nodding to herself as she sees the results. “Your temperature has climbed to 40.2. Let’s give it a minute to stabilise and I’ll try something else.”

 

“I wait with bated breath,” Severus says dryly as he slumps back in the chair, one arm flung over his face in the very picture of despair.

 

Hermione cycles through all the healing spells she and Severus have collected over the past few weeks, meticulously documenting the effects and side-effects of each charm. By the time Severus’s fever breaks three hours later, they’re both completely exhausted.

 

“Thirty-seven degrees even,” Hermione says in relief as she dismisses her last round of diagnostics, wiping sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her robe and giving Severus a weary smile. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

 

“Is that what this place is?” Severus retorts with a tired groan, his skin a sallow shade of grey and visibly clammy.

 

“You did great,” Hermione says as she eagerly thrusts her notebook at him. “And the results are incredible, take a look.”

 

Severus groans again, eyes fluttering closed practically of their own volition. “Could we maybe save the analysis for later, love?”

 

Hermione chuckles softly, putting the book down before kneeling in front of Severus. “That’s probably sensible,” she says, gently brushing a sweaty lock of hair out of his eyes. “How about we have a shower and an early night instead?”

 

“Sounds delightful,” Severus says as he slowly pushes himself upright, swaying slightly on unsteady legs. “Although you may find me sound asleep on the shower floor if I’m in there too long.”

 

“How about a bath then?” Hermione suggests as she slips under his arm to support him, “We could even transfigure yours so that it’s big enough for two.”

 

Severus pauses, turning slightly so that he can raise an eyebrow at her. Hermione simply shrugs, a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Can’t have you drowning this close to the finish line now can we?”

 

Severus barks a surprised laugh, bending to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “No, indeed,” he says fondly, allowing her to slowly guide them out of their workroom and back towards his bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Less than half an hour later finds Hermione staring down at Severus’s newly-transfigured bathtub, wondering quite how she managed to get herself into this situation.

 

Everything with Severus is just so  _ easy _ . When she’s with him - talking and laughing and sometimes even casually flirting - it’s practically effortless for her to fall back into old patterns, to act like the Hermione she was…before. 

 

And that’s exactly the problem; she’s not that Hermione any more. The Hermione of before wouldn’t think twice before inviting her lover to share a bath with her, but the Hermione of today can feel the panic bubbling in her chest at the very idea of being seen naked. The Hermione of before would already be under the water, calling for her partner to hurry up and join her, but the Hermione of today can’t seem to make her legs move.

 

She so wants to be the Hermione of before again. She wants it desperately,  _ achingly _ . But she’s pretty sure that Hermione doesn’t exist anymore, and probably won’t ever again.

 

A knock at the bathroom door startles her out of her reverie, and she turns sharply to see Severus poking his head inside the room. “You haven’t fallen asleep mid-cast have you?” he begins teasingly, but as soon as he sees her startled expression he immediately turns serious.

 

“What’s wrong, love?” he asks softly as he steps into the room, holding a hand out for her to reach for if she so chooses.

 

Hermione takes a deep breath, and shakes her head viciously to clear it of its lingering thoughts. “Nothing, nothing,” she says, stepping forward to give Severus’s outstretched hand a quick squeeze. “Just got caught up in my own head for a moment there.”

 

Severus squints slightly, like he’s trying to read something very important in her expression. “Just because you were the one to suggest this,” he begins slowly, carefully, “doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind.”

 

Hermione exhales heavily, the truth of Severus’s quiet understanding coming down on her all at once. She can do this. She can not do this. It’s entirely up to her, and that’s somehow enough for her to be able to take this next step.

 

”Thank you, Severus, really,” she says, moving towards him, close enough that she has to tilt her head upwards to meet his gaze. “But I want to do this.” 

 

She may not be the Hermione of before any more, but she’s still Hermione, and maybe that’s all she needs for now.

 

“Would you like me to wait outside while you undress?” Severus lifts her hand to kiss along her knuckles, the question caressing feather-light against her skin.

 

“No, it’s okay,” Hermione says, dropping her eyes to his chest before forcing herself to meet his gaze again. “But...can we...together?”

 

Severus pauses, as if surprised by her request, and for a moment Hermione thinks he’s about to say no. Then he nods, sharply, and takes a pointed step backwards. “Of course,” he says as he immediately starts to unbutton his work robes.

 

Hermione doesn’t let her eyes leave his as she steadily matches his pace. She shrugs off her own work robes as his drop to the floor, revealing their respective day robes underneath. Severus’s hands move up to untie his cravat, and she joins him by undoing the plaits in her hair. Item by item, piece by piece, they reveal themselves to one another, until they’re both standing in just their underwear, eyes still locked together.

 

“On the count of three?” Hermione is glad her voice holds steady as she asks the question. Severus nods, and Hermione wonders if she’s imagining the nerves that play across his features as he does so. 

 

“One.” Hermione starts the count.

 

“Two.” Severus continues it.

 

“Three.” Hermione scrunches her eyes shut as she flicks open her bra clasp, shrugging it off her shoulders before bending to push her knickers to the floor. 

 

She hears the rustle of clothing from the other side of the room, and she opens her eyes one at a time. Severus’s shoulders are squared, his jaw set, and this time Hermione is sure the insecurities she can see on his face aren’t imagined.

 

For the first time since they began, she lets her eyes drop, skimming her gaze over pale skin and taut lines. Severus’s slender build isn’t a surprise to her; she’s felt his prominent collarbones and sharp hips through his clothes plenty of times before, but the tapestry of scars littering his body are. 

 

Some she recognises with dismay from their shared time at Voldemort’s mercy, but they are far from the only lines of abuse scattered across his skin. Life has been hard on Severus Tobias Snape, and his body showcases that hardship in all its painful glory. Hermione notices with a jolt that a few of the scars are old, far too old to have come from his time as an Order member or even a young Death Eater, and her heart hurts at that cruel implication.

 

“I know my figure leaves something to be desired,” Severus’s voice is perfectly even, like he’s forcibly holding his emotions in check. “I can only hope you do not find it too unappealing.”

 

Hermione instinctively takes a step towards him, her own nerves instantly subsumed by a desperate need to show him just how wrong that statement is. She stops just in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his bare skin. Slowly she reaches up, placing one of her hands on his chest - just over his heart - while the other lightly cups his jaw. “Every inch of you is perfect,” she says emphatically, standing on her tiptoes to place a kiss on each of his sharp collarbones before moving to kiss his lips. 

 

Severus hums in surprise as her mouth closes over his, but he returns the kiss instinctively, almost needily, both arms wrapping around her waist so that he can draw her closer to him. Hermione goes willingly, her own arms wrapping tightly around his neck as she tries to adequately convey the strength of her affection for him through a single kiss.

 

Finally she breaks away, but stays pressed up against Severus as she nuzzles her nose against his neck. “Thank you for not hiding from me,” she says, voice suddenly thick with emotion. “It makes me want to be able to do the same.” 

 

Severus makes a sound like something has gotten lodged in his throat, but he doesn’t say anything as he draws her closer to him, pressing one more kiss to the top of her head as his arms tighten protectively around her.

 

It takes longer than it possibly should, but eventually Hermione becomes cognizant once more of their combined nakedness. With an awkward laugh she steps out of his embrace, feeling her cheeks flush with the heat of embarrassment. “So, erm, shall we?” she asks, nodding towards the tub.

 

Severus blinks slowly at her, as if he’s forgotten all about the reason for their being here. When he finally seems to remember he matches her embarrassed chuckle, and quickly casts  _ Aguamenti _ to fill the large bathtub with faintly steaming water. “Of course. After you.”

 

Hermione gives Severus another small, soft smile before stepping back over towards the large bathtub. Gripping the edge of the tub firmly - it wouldn’t do to slip and fall now of all times - she slowly lowers herself into the warm water.

 

“Mmm, perfect temperature,” she notes happily once she’s fully submerged, splashing some of the water up and over her shoulders. “It just needs one more thing.” A quick flick of her hand and she casts one of the few wandless spells she knows, filling the room with a faintly floral scent as the surface of the water erupts with thick, soapy bubbles.

 

Severus snorts as he walks over to join her. “I must say, I can’t remember the last time I indulged in such frivolity.” 

 

“Then you’re missing out,” Hermione comments sagely, picking up handfuls of glistening liquid and letting it fall through her fingers. “Bubbles are the best part of having a bath.”

 

“Far be it for me to contest such a bold claim,” Severus says as he swings his leg over the porcelain rim, and Hermione gets the distinct impression he’s teasing her as he sinks into the water next to her. 

 

“Oh shush, you,” she says, holding up her hands and blowing some of the suds at him. A couple of bubbles float and land in his hair, and one pops exactly on the tip of his nose. Severus draws back with a start, and looks so affronted that Hermione can’t help but laugh.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” she says between giggles. “You just look so adorable like that.”

 

“I am no such thing,” Severus says severely, briskly patting down his hair to rid it of its adornments, which only makes Hermione laugh harder.

 

“Of course, my mistake,” she says as she nudges at Severus’s nearest arm until he brings it up and around her shoulders. “You are nothing but formidable at all times.”

 

“And don’t you forget it,” Severus growls as he draws her closer into his side.

 

For a while they soak in companionable silence, Hermione losing herself in the metronome chant of Severus’s steady heartbeat underneath her ear. After a while her back starts to cramp though, and she’s forced to sit upright so that she can stretch out the kinks.

 

“I think my body is starting to feel all those hours brewing,” she comments as she twists from side to side, her back clicking satisfyingly.

 

“You need to have better posture over the cauldron,” Severus says archly. “Or by the time you’re forty you’ll bear a startling likeness to a withered crone .”

 

“Thanks for that,” Hermione glares at him, flexing her back until it pops loudly. “I know I should be better about it. It’s just easy to forget when you’re caught up in the moment.”

 

“Oh I know,” Severus agrees, “It took many, many years for it to become habit for me.” He tugs gently at her arm, guiding her in front of him. “Come, sit here.”

 

“What are you doing?” Hermione asks curiously as she allows herself to be repositioned in between Severus’s legs with her back to him.

 

“Something I learnt far too late in my Potions career,” Severus says as he moves his hands to her shoulders and starts kneading at the tight muscles there.

 

“Oh  _ Merlin _ , that feels good.” Hermione can’t help the groan of pleasure that falls from her lips as Severus’s fingers expertly dig into the tight knots between her shoulder-blades. 

 

“Is this okay?” Severus asks, his voice a low whisper that washes over her in a gentle caress. 

 

“So much more than okay,” Hermione breathes, her head lolling forward as Severus slowly undoes her muscle by muscle. “Please, don’t ever stop.” 

 

She can hear Severus’s low chuckle behind her. “We may both waste away in this bathtub if I do that.”

 

“Definitely worth it,” Hermione says, groaning again as Severus works at a particularly stubborn knot in her right shoulder. 

 

Severus laughs again as he meticulously moves his way down her spine. The sound ripples around her, its owner so close but just out of view.

 

“The last time we were sitting in this position you were inside my mind.” She doesn’t know why she says it, doesn’t know why she even  _ thinks _ it really. That situation was so far removed from this one it barely warrants the connection. 

 

Severus’s hands instantly freeze on her back. “Would you like me to stop?”

 

“No!” Hermione blurts, inwardly cursing herself a thousand times over for her idiocy. “No that’s not what I meant at all.” 

 

Severus pauses for another long beat. “Would you like me to...do more?” His voice sounds confused, like he’s not sure whether he should even be asking such a thing.

 

“Oh,  _ no _ , I didn’t mean that either,” Hermione buries her face in her hands with a mortified groan. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I even brought it up. Ignore me, please? It’s clearly these massage endorphins making me a bit loopy.”

 

Severus hums like he doesn’t quite believe her, but his hands resume their work down her spine nonetheless.

 

Hermione exhales heavily, closing her eyes and trying to lose herself in Severus’s ministrations once more. It’s no use though. Now that she’s called attention to it, she can’t seem to drag her thoughts away from that scene between the two of them that was entirely in her head but had still felt so real.

 

Severus has been so kind, so patient, so  _ attentive _ . At a time in her life when everything had been one awful, unending nightmare, Severus had managed - just for a little bit - to make her feel...good. 

 

She knows she probably shouldn’t, but she can’t help wondering if it’s still possible for her to feel that good. 

 

“Not now,” she says slowly, each word leaving her lips like individual drops of water. “But maybe at some point? In the future?”

 

She can practically hear the smile in Severus’s voice as he leans forward to kiss her neck. “You just tell me when,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

 

Hermione doesn’t know what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything. For a while they sit in silence as Severus continues to work his way down her back and Hermione tries not to overthink what she’s just asked.

 

“You’ll have to teach me how to do this to you,” she finally says as Severus reaches her lower back and makes something crunch deliciously.

 

Severus’s hands falter, just for a moment, before they pick up their steady pace again. “You know I’m not doing this because I expect compensation?” he says carefully.

 

“I know that,” Hermione says, hoping he can hear the conviction in her voice. “I want to. I like the idea of being able to make you feel this good.”

 

Severus laughs softly, his hands continuing their tireless work. “In that case, I would be honoured to show you.”

 

Hermione couldn’t say how long Severus massages her overworked back, but at some point she finds herself dozing, leaning back against against his chest behind her. Severus’s hands have slipped down from her shoulders and are wrapped around her waist, and Hermione can tell from his steady breathing that he’s also bordering on the cusp of sleep. Somewhere in the back of her brain, rationality is telling her that they should move, that this is neither the time nor place for them to be napping. But she’s so comfortable, and so content, that it feels like a truly superhuman act for her to even consider moving right now.

 

So the pair of them doze, until the water finally goes cold, and goosebumps start to prick along their skin. Finally they’re both forced to admit defeat, and trek the almost insurmountable six feet from bathroom to bed. They collapse unceremoniously together, and sleep tangled in each other’s arms until dawn breaks the next day. 

 

* * *

 

The next day they call an Order meeting, and present the results of their experimentation to the attendant Witches and Wizards. Grimmauld Place is packed to the rafters, as seemingly every Order member on the continent turns up to hear about the plan that might finally defeat Voldemort once and for all.

 

McGonagall gives a short introduction, but quickly hands the room over to Hermione. Hermione can feel her palms sweating as she casts  _ Sonorus _ on herself so that she can be heard, but her voice holds blessedly steady as she outlines what they’ve created and how they plan to use it. Severus stands by her side the whole time, his hand resting against the small of her back in tacit support as she answers questions and assuages fears that come at her quick-fire as soon as she’s finished talking.

 

It’s a solid plan. She knows it, Severus knows it, and soon the rest of the Order knows it too as the sentiment of the room quickly tips from concerned to enthusiastic. This is the opportunity they’ve all been waiting for, and now that it’s here, everyone is eager to get started.

 

The discussion continues well into the small hours of the morning, finalising dates and plans and strategy. By the time McGonagall finally adjourns the meeting, there’s a palpable feeling of anticipation in the air. Order members leave tired, but in high spirits as they apparate away to finalize their respective preparations, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before things start to move very quickly indeed.

 

And with that, the countdown to the end, begins.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for delay with this chapter folks! This one was **really** far outside my narrative comfort zone, so it took a while to get it into a state I was happy with. Hope you enjoy though!

“Fuck!” Hermione throws her hairbrush down on the bathroom counter with a frustrated yell. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

 

“Is everything okay dearie?” her mirror chimes in unhelpfully, and Hermione throws a vicious glare at her own reflection.

 

“Absolutely nothing is okay,” she says, slapping both her hands down on the counter with a heavy sigh. “Tonight we either take out Voldemort once and for all or everyone I care about in this world dies, and it all hinges on my potion, and my plan, and we are apparating in twenty minutes and my  _ hair wont fucking behave _ .”

 

She cuts herself off with a pained whimper, squeezing her eyes tightly shut and forcing herself to take a deep, steadying breath. She can feel the panic bubbling underneath her skin, just waiting for the opportunity to erupt. If she gives it any sort of opening she’ll never be able to get it back under control again, she just knows it.

 

She needs to have it under control, if she wants to have any sort of chance of surviving tonight. Surviving  _ them _ .

 

“Your hair is beautiful, sweetheart. Many a witch has spent many a galleon on achieving the level of volume you have naturally.” Her mirror sounds so painfully genuine that Hermione can’t help her soft huff of laughter.

 

“As much as I appreciate the self-love pep talk,” she says, her voice only quavering slightly, “This hair still makes me far too recognisable for what we’re about to do.”

 

Part of her acknowledges that she’s most likely fixating on this small problem to avoid thinking about anything bigger, but it doesn’t change that fact that she’s about to go up against an army of Death Eaters with her hair broadcasting her identity to the world. The same hair they yanked, tugged, curled between their fingers and used to make her arch her spine while they violated her. The idea of facing off against one of those masked monsters is already almost too much for her to handle. The thought that they might recognise her while she does so is simply out of the question.

 

“Hmmm,” her mirror ponders slowly as Hermione works on regulating her breathing. “Would you like me to give it a go?”

 

“You...you can do that?” 

 

“Of course dearie,” her mirror replies with a chuckle. “I’m not just here for conversation, you know.” 

 

“Oh.” She doesn’t know why she didn’t know this earlier, why she didn’t think to ask. “Then...I mean...if you wouldn’t mind?”

 

Her mirror chuckles again, and Hermione feels a sharp breeze of magic ripple around her. Her vision blurs - her reflection in the mirror turning distant and distorted - and she has to blink rapidly to bring everything back into focus. Once it does, she can’t help gasping at her new appearance.

 

As promised, her hair is tightly braided away from her face, three plaits on either side running from her hairline to the nape of her neck where it all combines into one intricate braid flowing down her spine. But that’s not all that her mirror has added. Dark kohl covers her eyes in a smokey wave that stretches to her hairline and down across her cheekbones. Her skin is powdered matte, blending with her lips so everything else fades away, drawing focus to her sharp eyes behind their painted mask.

 

She looks fearsome; an angel of death sent to wreak bloody vengeance on those who have wronged her.

 

“Wow,” she breathes as she cautiously reaches out to touch her reflection. The face staring back at her isn’t one that freezes at the thought of going up against her tormentors. This face is ready to spill blood, to look the men who tried to take everything from her square in the eye, and let them know just how badly they failed. 

 

“Battle armour comes in many forms, dearie,” her mirror says softly as another whisper of magic raises the hood of her cloak, casting shadows on her face and truly completing the look. “Now, go and give them all hell.”

 

* * *

 

Ron whistles lowly as Hermione descends the stairs to the hallway where they’re all scheduled to meet. “Wow, ‘mione, way to make the rest of us look underdressed.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” George replies as he slips his arm through Hermione’s, not giving her a chance to be embarrassed at the sudden attention. He’s wearing a bright red robes, extravagant and ostentatious, and Hermione finds herself unable to tear her eyes away.

 

“Poor Ronniekins doesn’t understand the subtle art of Aposematism,” Fred enunciates every syllable as he he steps up on Hermione’s other side, wearing identical robes to his twin. “Either that or he’s just jealous of how good we all look.”

 

Ron snorts, rolling his eyes at his brothers. “There is nothing even remotely subtle about what you two are wearing.”

 

“It’s a warning sign, brother dearest. Here be poisonous creatures who will do you harm.” George explains. “Or in Hermione’s case, death personified."

 

“And if we do end up kicking it,” Fred continues, “At least we’ll look damn good when we go.”

 

“Boys!” Molly appears besides them and swats at each of her sons’ heads in turn. “Don’t joke about such awful things.”

 

“Aw sorry Mum,” Fred says, sounding genuinely contrite. “You know we didn’t mean it.”

 

“I need your word that you won’t try anything foolish out there tonight,” Molly says, her voice fierce even as her eyes start to turn glassy with tears. “I need you all home in one piece, understood?”

 

“Yes Mum,” the three Weasley boys chorus in union, and Hermione uses the opportunity to extricate herself from between the twins. She knows that Molly cares about all of them - her and Harry included - but it feels like she’s intruding on a moment that should probably just be between family.

 

“Hermione.” Severus’s low voice is accompanied with a soft touch to her arm, and Hermione instinctively turns towards him, leaning into the touch without thought.

 

“There you are,” she says quietly, one hand reaching up to stroke softly along Severus’s jawline. “I was worried we wouldn’t get to see one another before everyone has to leave.”

 

The two of them have been assigned to different groups; Severus apparating into the main dining room as part of the first wave, Hermione arriving with Ron and Harry through a side entrance to give them the greatest chance of Harry reaching Voldemort undetected.

 

“I would never have allowed it,” Severus replies, his own hand coming up take hers as he leads them over to a more secluded corner of the room.

 

There’s a constant buzz of activity around them as members of the Order prep and plan and say their goodbyes, but Hermione’s world shrinks to just herself and Severus, shutting everything and everyone out as she rests her head against his chest, listening to the reassuring beat of his heart underneath his familiar frock coat. Severus’s arms come down around her shoulder, and he presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

 

“I won’t say something so trite as to be careful,” Severus says slowly, as if every word has been carefully considered and reconsidered. “And I certainly won’t ask you not to put yourself in harm’s way, because I know you would never listen. Just promise me that you’re going to try and stay alive. Promise me that your goal is to come home at the end of this, to come back...to me.” 

 

Hermione’s breath catches in her throat at his plaintive request. She hasn’t really let herself consider it before now; that dark, seductive thought that dances at the edges of her subconscious when she’s tired and weak and so close to being defeated. There’s a certain relief in the idea of going out in a blaze of glory, of having her revenge and then not having to deal with anything else any more. 

 

But she can’t do it. Not to Severus, not to her friends, and certainly not to herself. For all that she’s suffered, for all that she’s endured, she’s still here, and she wants to keep on being here. 

 

“I promise,” she says quietly, talking to herself as much as Severus as she tips her head upwards to face him. “As long as you promise the same.”

 

Severus’s arms tighten around her shoulders. “Always,” he says fervently, bending to press a long, sweet kiss to her lips. “Always.”

 

He draws away far too soon for Hermione’s liking, and Hermione can’t help her growl of unhappiness as she presses forward again, trying to reclaim him for whatever time they might have left. Severus chuckles and places two fingers against her mouth to stop her, then taps her nose lightly.

 

“I am in something of a conundrum,” he says, voice playful even as Hermione sees something more serious flicker through his expression. “I have always considered it inordinately cliched for lovers to make grant statements of affection immediately before battle, but now that I find myself in said position, I simply cannot abide by the idea of parting without telling you just how ardently I admire and love you, Hermione Jean Granger.”

 

The air catches in Hermione’s throat as she looks up at Severus, his expression so warm and open and genuine. The sentiment itself isn’t a surprise, they’ve been flickering around the edges of such a declaration since the very beginning, but knowing it and hearing it are two very different things.

 

“You love me?” she says quietly, slipping her arms up and around his neck.

 

“Very much so,” Severus replies, the hint of a smile flickering against his lips.

 

“I…did you just quote Pride and Prejudice at me?” The realisation hits Hermione at exactly the wrong moment, and she can’t quite stifle her snort of amusement.

 

Severus jerks in shock, eyes wide and mouth agape even as his arms stay tightly wrapped around her waist. “Well, that wasn’t exactly the response I was hoping for.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Hermione stands on her tiptoes to pepper kisses across Severus’s horrified expression. “I love you too, you closet romantic, you know I do.”

 

“Jane Austen was a literary master, and Pride and Prejudice is a classic,” Severus harrumphs even as he lets Hermione turn his face towards hers.

 

“And when we get back - when we  _ both _ get back - you’ll have to read it to me, cover to cover.” Hermione says, still placing kisses on every inch of accessible skin.

 

“It would be my pleasure,” Severus promises, capturing Hermione’s lips with his own and ending the conversation in the most delightful way possible.

 

* * *

 

All too soon they’re both called away for final preparations. It takes more strength than Hermione thought she would need to let go of Severus and walk away from him, but they’re entering the final stretch now; she needs to have her head in the game if she wants to make sure she’s still around to see him on the other side.

 

She joins Harry and Ron with the rest of their assigned apparition group. Her friends look grim but determined as Ron wraps her in a hug and Harry squeezes her hand tightly.

 

“This is it, huh?” Ron says lowly as he lets her go, the nerves clear on his face as he runs his hands through his messy hair. “It feels like it’s been such a long time coming, I can’t believe this might really be it.”

 

“Here’s hoping,” Hermione agrees, turning between her two friends and desperately trying not to think about how this might be the last time they’re all together.

 

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Hermione?” Harry asks softly, his expression slightly pained as he touches her elbow to get her attention.

 

Hermione snorts loudly; probably too loudly given the situation. “Of the three of us, who’s been casting semi-reliable hexes since she was eleven?”

 

“Hermione,” Harry insists, ignoring her obvious attempts at distraction, “You know that’s not what I meant.”

 

“I know, Harry,” Hermione admits, allowing herself to be serious again as she covers his hand with her own. “And if I didn’t think I could handle this - if I really thought I would do more harm than good out there - I’d take myself out of the action. You know I would.”

 

“You promise?” Harry asks once more, and Hermione can see the fear clear in his bright green eyes. 

 

“I promise,” Hermione says fiercely, squeezing her friend’s hand tightly. “I can do this, I know I can.”

 

“No heroics out there, okay?” Harry says, and not for the first time Hermione sees the leader her friend has been growing into peek out from behind his familiar features. “We go in, we get the job done, and we all make it back home.”

 

“Now when has that ever been our style?” Ron asks, throwing his arms around both of them and breaking the tension that has started to get just a bit too much. “We go in, everything goes wrong, we improvise, and  _ then _ we all make it back home.”

 

“Yeah, that does sound a lot more likely,” Hermione agrees as the trio take up their positions ready to apparate: Harry in the middle, Ron on his right, Hermione on his left. 

 

Just like it’s always been, just like it was always meant to be.

 

They apparate with the rest of their group to a bluff a short distance from Malfoy manor, settling down in the bushes to wait for their signal. It’s a cold night, but thankfully dry, and Hermione lies prone next to Harry as he peers over the edge down towards the manor.

 

“Do you think it’s going to plan?” Harry asks after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper. 

 

“I’m sure it is.” Hermione tries to inject her voice with a confidence that she most certainly doesn’t feel.

 

“Shouldn’t we have gotten the signal by now?”

 

“We’ve only been here a few minutes, I’m sure it’s coming.”

 

“But what if it doesn’t? What if Draco’s been found out and they’re torturing him as we speak?” Harry’s voice is pained, and Hermione gets the feeling that his casual fun with Malfoy has turned into something decidedly less casual in the past few weeks.

 

“Harry, I-” Hermione is thankfully cut off from having to give her friend any false assurances by a shower of bright red stars erupting above the manor.

 

“That’s it!” Harry jumps up eagerly, signalling to the rest of the group. “Okay people, time to move.”

 

“I told you everything was fine,” Hermione says with a small smile as they all quickly assemble.

 

“Yeah yeah, gloat on the other side will you?” Harry replies fondly, and his smile is the last thing Hermione sees before they’re sucked out of existence and deposited in the halls of Malfoy manor.

 

Their secluded side entrance is somewhat less secluded than expected, and Hermione’s feet have barely touched the ground before she’s diving out of the way of a hex heading straight towards her. She flings herself behind a nearby pillar, adrenaline spiking through her veins, and forces herself to make sure she’s not in the line of fire for any more attacks before peering out to take stock of the situation.

 

There are witches and wizards everywhere, spells flying through the air with terrifyingly accurate aim. The battle has already spilled out from the main dining hall, and Hermione notes with grim satisfaction that some of the fights are Death Eater on Death Eater, which means the seed of suspicion caused by her potion has clearly taken root. Other Death Eaters are looking decidedly worse for wear as they parry Order member attacks, their skin flushed with fever and glistening sweat.

 

“It worked!” Hermione can’t help exclaiming excitedly before realising that she’s on her own. The rest of her group has already scattered, and Harry and Ron are nowhere to be seen.

 

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” she readies her wand and looks for a break in the action to emerge from behind her pillar. She needs to find her friends before they decide to do anything particularly dangerous without her.

 

She keeps low as she darts out into the open, insinctively ducking another hex thrown at someone behind her. The noise of battle around her is deafening, the magical shriek of spells combining with the human screams of fear and rage to create a horrifying melody of death that fills the air. 

 

A sharp bolt of pain shoots up her arm as a slicing spell catches her, and she whirls to face her opponent. A Death Eater mask smiles back at her from behind an outstretched wand, and for a sharp second Hermione’s world freezes. She can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t focus on anything above the pounding of her heart and the ringing in her ears.

 

It’s going to happen again. No,  _ no _ . It can’t happen again.

 

The Death Eater jerks his wand, and Hermione just about manages to throw up a shielding charm before his curse hits her. The force of impact shunts her back a few feet, and it’s just enough to shake her paralysis. The world starts moving again in double time to make up for what it lost, and Hermione flings a volley of curses back at her assailant with an enraged scream. The third one hits him square in the chest, and he drops to the floor with a resounding thud. Hermione doesn’t bother to check if he’s alive before stunning him with the strongest spell she can muster.

 

The body in front of her goes limp, and Hermione takes a deep, heaving breath before spinning on her heels to continue her search for her friends.

 

She moves as fast as she can, which is to say not very fast at all. The battle is raging all through the manor, and Hermione takes out as many Death Eaters as she can aim her wand at. Each time one of those awful masks hits the ground Hermione feels a dark tendril of satisfaction lick at her insides, and while part of her knows that she shouldn’t feel pleasure in such carnage, she can’t quite bring herself to care as she flings hex after spell after curse at those who tried to destroy her.

 

She can see other Order members fighting all around her; Fred and George standing back-to-back, laughing maniacally as they fight, McGonagall going up against three Death Eaters and flooring them all with one elegant hex. Hermione forces herself not to look for a billowing frock coat in amongst the carnage, knowing that she simply can’t afford the distraction. It’s hard though, so hard. They promised each other they’d both come out the other side, but now that she’s in the thick of battle that promise seems near-impossible to keep.

 

A flash of ginger catches her attention, and she turns just in time to see Harry and Ron disappear behind a tapestry on the other side of the room. She swears and starts to run in their direction, hissing in pain as a rogue curse grazes her side. She presses her hand to the point of impact and winces as her palm immediately turns slick with blood, but she keeps running as she mumbles a quick healing spell to patch the wound. She just has to hope that the magical gauze will hold long enough for her to do what needs to be done. 

 

She reaches the tapestry, and forces herself to slow down and slip behind it rather than charging in like the Gryffindor in her so desperately desires. She finds herself in a small tunnel, the ceiling so low that she has to crouch to avoid hitting her head. Trying very hard not to think about how much of a disadvantage she’ll be in if anybody chooses to attack her now, she slowly creeps down the tunnel to where the other end is also covered by a thick wall hanging. She pauses, barely daring to breathe as she listens to the sounds on the other side of the tapestry. 

 

She can hear the low grunts of fighting, the unmistakable hiss of spells as they fly through the air, but unlike the rest of the manor she can also hear the shuffle of feet, the quiet pauses between attacks. There’s only a few people on the other side of this tapestry, she’s sure of it, and she’s also reasonably sure who they are.

 

She slowly lifts a shaking hand, and inches the fabric to the side so that she can see what’s going on, and her heart catches in her throat as her suspicions are confirmed.

 

On the far side of the room, facing in her direction, Harry and Ron are shoulder to shoulder, firing curses at the looming figure of Voldemort. The Dark Lord has his back to Hermione, but his silhouette is unmistakable as he sends spell after spell at her friends with wide, sweeping gestures. The boys are fighting valiantly, but they’re slowly losing ground. Step by step, inch by inch, Voldemort is forcing them to retreat to where a hard stone wall waits for them at their backs. 

 

A curse hits Ron in the chest and he goes down wheezing, Harry lets out an enraged yell as he retaliates, but Voldemort bats the spell away like it’s nothing more than a minor irritation.

 

“So defiant, so foolish,” Voldemort hisses, and Hermione feels the chill of his voice radiate up her spine. “You really thought you could defeat me?”

 

Ron struggles to his feet, breathing heavily and arm shaking as he levels his wand once more at Voldemort. “You bet your ass we’re gonna,” he growls.

 

Voldemort laughs that awful laugh that still haunts Hermione’s dreams. “My, my, aren’t we delusional?” He swipes his wand and knocks Ron’s feet out from underneath him before turning to address Harry directly. “You really should find some better backup, boy. What happened to the girl?”

 

Hermione chokes, her heart-rate spiking as she watches Harry’s face twist in fury. “You monster!” he screams, lunging forward and sending a bolt of lightning at Voldemort that singes his robes and fills the room with the smell of burning flesh.

 

Voldemort laughs again as he magically douses the flames, not even appearing to notice the flesh wound. “I must say, it is a shame she won’t get to die next to you.” He aims his wand directly at Harry’s heart. “But then again, she does have  _ other _ uses.”

 

Hermione can’t hold herself back any longer. She flings herself out from behind the tapestry, her wand already aiming at Voldemort’s back. “ _ Sectumsempra _ ,” she screams, throwing all of her hurt and rage behind the curse. It hits right between Voldemort’s shoulderblades, and he shrieks and stumbles forwards as deep cuts slice their way down his back. Harry immediately takes advantage of the momentary lapse in concentration, and with a victorious  _ Expelliarmus _ the Dark Lord’s wand flies through the air and into Harry’s outstretched palm.

 

Hermione stalks across the room, wand levelled at Voldemort. His face twists with malice, and he moves as if to cast a wandless spell. Ron is ready for him, though, and a  _ Petrificus Totalus _ immediately puts him on the floor, his entire body locked rigid. Only his eyes dart from side to side, finally showing some semblance of fear as Hermione, Ron and Harry all advance on him as one.

 

“The biggest mistake you ever made,” Hermione says, her voice low and practically vibrating with anger as she points her want directly at Voldemort’s heart, “Was thinking you had broken me.”

 

Silence falls as the three of them stare down at the cause of so much evil, now reduced to a crumpled body on the cold stone floor.

 

“What do we do now?” Ron finally asks, “Do we...arrest him?”

 

“No.” Harry’s tone brokers no argument. “This ends here, tonight.”

 

“Agreed,” Hermione says, relieved that she’s not going to have to fight a battle of morals on top of everything else. “It’s the only way we can be sure.”

 

Harry turns to Hermione. “Would you like to do the honours?”

 

Hermione starts, eyes finally leaving Voldemort’s form to look at her friend in surprise. “Oh, no Harry, I’m not going to take this from you.”

 

“Are you sure? Wouldn’t it help, I dunno, with closure or something?”

 

“Oh for the love of Godric,” Ron interrupts in exasperation. “You guys are putting way too much faith in the strength of my charms. One of you do it already before this fucker finds a way to escape like he always does.”

 

Harry huffs a soft, apologetic laugh, scratching at the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Together?” he says. “All three of us?”

 

Hermione nods, and readies her wand. “The three of us.” 

 

Bright flames erupt from three wand tips in unison, engulfing the body in front of them in a white hot blaze. Hermione watches as the magical fire burns fast, and pure, and deadly, and feels strangely at peace. They did it,  _ she _ did it. After everything that’s happened to her, every monstrous thing she’s been subjected to, she’s still here. Still here, and looking down at the darkest force in the wizarding world as he finally perishes.

 

Fingers brush up against her arm, and she looks down to see Ron slip his hand into hers. She smiles softly and reaches her other hand out for Harry’s, sandwiching her wand between their palms just in case she needs it again. Harry doesn’t look at her, but he squeezes her hand in tacit appreciation, and together they look on in silence as the flames run their course, until there’s nothing left but a pile of ash seeping into the cracks of the old stone floor. 


End file.
